Chapter Text
When Tartah rounded the corner this time, he was struck still as a statue. He supposed he got used to the empty music shop counter and the eerie quiet that festered within the central room: he hadn’t expected someone to be behind the counter, much less someone who wasn’t Custas, though this person wasn’t much of a shock either. In fact, from the moment he pushed the door open, he was preparing to yell out his friend’s name from the bottom of the staircase only for it to die in his throat when two tired, dark eyes met his.
Dagda straightened from whatever he was doing on an ancient computer behind the desk, but even his polite smile appeared lackluster. Not in a disgusted or angry way: he looked plain exhausted. It looked like his best attempt, and Tartah returned it with his own uneasy smile, still reeling despite the fact he should have been prepared to see this man at some point. After all, there only appeared to be the two of them working here, unless Tartah had a knack for finding their slow times. Raising his hand, he gave a little wave as he walked up to the counter. It was returned.
“You are one of Custas’ friends, is that right? Tartah?” The man asked, and Tartah noticed his gaze stray to the bass case strapped to his back. He’s sure the man put two and two together: new comer with a bass after he just caught his employee with a vintage bass, and now the owner keeps coming back and is on a friendship level with the one who cleaned his instrument– but to ensure Custas didn’t get in trouble given he’s apparently not approved to teach lessons yet, Tartah replied, “Yes, is he around?”
“It’s good to put a face to a name.” Dagda nodded. And that was delivered with almost practiced neutrality that Tartah couldn’t begin to decipher, his cheeks growing warm as a result. So, Custas had talked to him… What exactly was the impression Dagda had of him? It couldn’t be bad if he referred to him as a friend and knew his name and hadn’t presented him with a bill of charges, but given their previous interaction, Tartah wasn’t sure how well Custas could spin ‘Yes, my friend, Tartah! You know the one: the one who had a mental breakdown and distracted me from my shift!’ – Whatever conclusion Tartah could conjure was interjected politely by the man as he mercifully continued, “He’s mentioned he’s helping you with your bass. He said you are a fast learner.”
Tartah blinked, once again struck with a familiar thought: Custas was kind. And also so, Custas was told not to do lessons, but Dagda doesn’t seem upset like he said he might be showing me the ropes… The dynamic is lost upon me. Was there a difference? Is it because Tartah isn’t really a normal, paying customer and is a hindrance at best? Whatever the case, he wasn’t going to throw Custas under any bus by misspeaking or lessenign the impact he has had on Tartah. “I’m happy to hear that. He’s been a very good teacher.”
Something softened in Dagda’s weathered expression, and he nodded a little as though taking note of that. Perhaps he was. Maybe this was all some lovely test that Custas benefited from, his last challenge before taing on his own lessons. That was a comforting thought.
Finally, Dagda reached up, pointing down the hallways Tartah was already becoming familiar with. “He’s in the back practice room. I hope you two have fun.”
Tartah smiled awkwardly, murmured another thanks. He excused himself, slinking off to where the practice rooms were located. This time, the two before Custas’ were occupied, and Tartah resisted the urge to peer in longer than the passing frame of him strolling past the window. One person appeared to be sitting on their phone with an instrument Tartah wasn’t certain of on their lap. It was black with multiple strings and… Yeah, he had no idea. It wasn’t a guitar, bass, ukulele, or banjo, and those were the only stringed instruments he felt confident naming.
A chuckle fell past his lips as he thought about that. Well, and pianos.
The next player was actively on their instrument, and he would widely assume it was the violin, but he’s sure there’s eight different instruments with the vague shape and hand placement as the violin, so even that was a shot in the dark. He always thought they were a pretty instrument. Those, harps and flutes were always marketed as more romantic instruments given their feathery sounds and feminine appeal (he guessed?). He wondered what Custas thought of them, then recalled his almost purposefully disheveled clothes, the bags in his pants, his worn down sneakers and the band logos on his shirts that Tartah paid little to no mind to. Given the get-up, he assumed Custas was far from a classics sort of guy, and Tartah would bet a paycheck that the majority of heavy metal bands lacked a flutist.
He caught sight of his friend from the door’s single, square pane window as he reached the end of the hall. His hand raised to knock, but faltered upon noticing Custas had chunky headphones over his ears, his eyes closed, his hands dancing across a guitar (or a bass: Tartah really didn’t know the difference): the very picture of someone who not be disturbed or rattled by a singular rap on the door given he’d not even hear it.
He sat on the bench set out for the keyboard along the wall. Hooked up to his headphones was the speaker that he connected Tartah to on the first day they met, and another cable went straight into the instrument, precariously tangling with his feet, but not enough to restrict the tapping of one of his feet on the ground. His hands were a different story: there was no discernable rhythm in Tartah’s eyes from how he flew up and down the fret board with seamless effort, like the instrument was an extension of himself. It was far from Tartah’s careful plucking: this was a master at work, and Tartah couldn’t hear a lick of it through the door. He watched as Custas’ nose scrunched at what must have been a misstep, his grimace remaining until he played it back over and smoothed out the mistake. How he could only make one mistake the entire time Tartah watched him, he had no clue. When your life lives and breathes music, he supposed everything came hand in hand... And practice.
For a brief moment, Tartah felt almost guilty for interrupting. Surely Custas wanted to practice too, and not worry about tutoring him all the time, but they had a schedule they both agreed on, so… Custas’ hands stilled on the instrument, the last string vibrating into the empty room. When it stilled, a grin crossed Custas’ face, knowing and blissful, as if finally getting fresh air in an open field like the ones in the canvases Tartah sorted through at night in a dusty attic.
Finally, Custas glanced toward the door with a lazy sweep of his eyes. When their gaze locked, his face lit up. Tartah’s chest squeezed.
He pulled the headphones off, tugging them down to rest on his neck as his other hand frantically beckoned him inside, his guitar hanging from his neck strap. Composing himself from his accidental snooping, Tartah walked in and, without second guessing himself, punched Custas’ shoulder with a gentle fist. “Are you teasing me now?”
Custas paused, face falling still as his dark eyes darted up to where Tartah loomed over him. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, almost reminiscent of a startled deer than the typical wishy-washy-whatever behavior Custas seemed to carry. He looked almost lost. Tartah frowned. “Am... I?”
“Yes,” Tartah huffed, sighing through his nose, but he couldn’t help a little smile from cracking through his act. “I’ve wanted to hear you play and you do it when I’m not here?”
He tilted his head to catch Custas’ reaction only to see those dark eyes flick back up to meet his. Huh? His brow furrowed. Where was he… Tartah followed an invisible line down, then realized. Slinging his bass case down, Tartah knelt to the floor with it and popped it open to reveal the bass sitting snug inside, properly tucked in with care before he set out for the shop as he knew Custas would appreciate it if he did. “What? Did you think I got rid of it already?”
Custas blinked once before a sheepish laugh escaped him. “Yeah, I wasn’t—” He paused, thinking for a moment, then leaned forward in his seat, chin resting on his fist as though appraising Tartah with the utmost seriousness. “You want to hear me play? Really?”
Tartah shifted on his knees, moving back a little as Custas invaded his personal space. This guy, he thought with a growing fondness for his odd ways. “Yes, I’ve made mention of that, if you don’t recall.”
“Well, nothing can be done about that,” Custas sighed despite there really being many things that could be done about it, including playing right now since he was all set to do so. Tartah raised his brow at him, awaiting whatever answer he’d be given. It was just as ridiculous as he was beginning to suspect. “Naturally, as a beginner, you lack the refined palate necessary to truly appreciate my work. You’ll just have to get even better with today’s lesson so that one day I may bless you~”
Tartah sighed in exaggerated defeat, donning the bass with a telltale sluggishness. Custas handed him the plug and he inserted it beneath the pickups. “Fine, but when I am qualified,” Tartah announced, standing and nodding the end of his fret toward Custas, “I expect you to give me a full concert for making me wait so long, teacher.”
Custas nodded along as though he was half listening, already getting the guitar off of him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Go out into the hall and grab a chair, okay?”
Tartah nodded, retreating to the hallway. He found a folding chair hidden against the shadows, bringing it in and setting it up a few feet from Custas, who scrunched his nose at the distance. He spotted Custas’ guitar leaned against the wall behind him now. He wondered if that was considered proper storage for the instrument. “Closer. I need to show you more stuff up close.”
Tartah tugged it forward, awkwardly scooting in to the diminished space between them so he could sit. Custas encouraged him to lean back in the seat a little to provide better range of motion, he guessed, then settled a hand on the fretboard, grazing it as he traveled the lengths of the strings.
“You said you wanted to practice with it at home,” Custas said, his hand steadying on the fret as though inspecting its condition after being returned to Tartah’s care. “How’d that go?”
Tartah shrugged, steadying the bass nicely for playing, taking his time to make sure he didn’t have it pointed too dramatically or settled where his hands couldn’t move freely. He set his thumb on the pickup Custas showed him in the past lesson. “I mostly got used to the motions, figuring out the fret numbers with their dots and stuff. I… Uh, I looked up some ‘tabs’?” When he didn’t receive a blank look, Tartah continued with some relief, “I tried to look at some beginner videos, but they just mentioned finding tabs, so I looked those up instead. I tried to figure that out, and I think I got the idea of it–” He ran his hand over the fretboard, their fingers brushing as Tartah’s brow furrowed. His cheeks warmed as he continued with a lackluster, “I’m just not very good at it.”
Custas nodded, his little smile unwavering. His knee nudged against Tartah’s as he leaned a hair closer, eyes gleaming, “Half of learning an instrument is self-discipline and discovery. I’m happy you looked around for things on your own: I feel less like I’m shoving it down your throat now!”
Tartah huffed in amusement, licking over his lips as he admitted readily, "I wasn't very successful. It’s hardly worth mentioning when the practice won’t show.”
"I don't care if you were successful. That’s why we practice.” Custas' eyes drifted toward the bass resting across Tartah's lap before wandering back up again. "Can I ask you something?"
Tartah nodded. "Go ahead."
"Do you know how to read sheet music at all?"
"... No."
"None?"
"I've genuinely never tried,” Tartah replied, scratching his cheek in thought. Custas’ lips pulled as though momentarily stumped, and it was simply because he was refusing to come to terms with that conclusion.
"You never sang in choir when you were in school?”
Tartah shook his head. "No. My primary school didn't have one. We did the recorder thing, but in middle school we were allowed to pick out our own electives. Music was one of the options, but I couldn’t see myself being able to learn an instrument for band and orchestra, so I did woodshop and a foreign language because I thought it’d be easier. Then in high school I just stuck with woodshop and auto.”
"Really?" Custas raised his eyebrows. "Huh. That.. might explain a lot. You have incredibly precise hands, even if they are a bit battered." Tartah glanced down to his scarred hands, the thin lines of healed cuts from his knives missing their mark, but he was distracted from that as Custas announced, "I think you would've made a wonderful little choir boy."
Tartah looked sideways at him with a glance. "What makes you say that if I can’t even read music?"
Custas rested his chin on his fist. His eyes crinkled in his amusement. “It’s ‘cause your accent is cute.”
Tartah stared, his hand slacking. A frown slowly built on Tartah’s face as he kept looking at him. "... Are you making fun of me?”
“No!” Custas held his hands up. “It’s very musical! It goes up and down like a song.”
Tartah relented, shaking his head to himself. “Like you are one to talk. I can’t even tell what region you are from.”
Any lingering worry, however small it was, at the potential offence was dropped as Custas smiled a little, though this time a bit more muted. Perhaps he was getting impatient to start the lesson again. He always seemed more vibrant with direct music talk. Not like Tartah could hold much of a conversation in that case, but he’d make a good attempt when it came up. “I’ve been around.”
Tartah glanced up, but before he could ask what that meant, Custas’ hand took his and adjusted it over the fifth fret. He peered up through his lashes. “If I say E3, could you play it for me?”
Without looking down, Tartah moved his hand up two bars, then plucked the proper string. Custas grinned. “So, you do know your strings and fret?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Tartah admitted with some shame. He had the thing for a week: He wasn’t some prodigy. Between friend time, helping grandpa, and working, he didn’t dedicate much time outside the half hour he was in bed before going to sleep. He’s lucky he can make it sound quiet when it’s not attached to an amp, but he wasn’t even sure grandpa could hear it from behind his closed door anyways. He made no comment about it yet, so Tartah supposed he was fine with whatever noise did leak out, however much that may be. “This bass has 20 frets, but it takes me a moment to remember where I’m at, and I need to count them most of the time because recalling the dots… I’m making steady progress with. The tabs I learned all focused between 0-5, so I have an easier time with them.”
Custas hummed. “And you already know what 0 is?”
“Empty bar,” Tartah replied, then corrected, “Uh, it’s a whole note so I just pluck and don’t press a string down.”
“I think you mean an open string,” Custas replied. “Have you practiced with pacing, or have you just focused on hitting the right notes?”
“Notes.”
Custas nodded as if that was exactly what he expected, though he’d hardly call it as satisfied as when he first learned Tartah was practicing. “Alright, well, today we will supplement with pacing.” He nudged Tartah’s knee again. “And that’s why you keep an instructor: youtube must not have stressed that it’s more important for a bass to be on track than just hitting the right notes.”
Tartah glanced down at where their knees had bumped. He didn’t move away, though he did briefly wonder if Custas realized he kept doing that. Was it just a fidget of his? He hadn’t noticed his knees bouncing before. In fact, Custas didn’t move his legs much when he sat down, instead keeping them partially distended when they were upstairs those two times. He kept that to himself though. There could be a myriad of reasons, and including his cane, there could be dozens more.
Tartah hummed. “I thought playing the right notes to make the song discernable would matter.”
And with that probably ridiculous comment, Custas leaned forward, suddenly building his prior animation in the way he did with music.
“Pfft, a missed note or a flattened sound once in a while is nothing compared to setting the groove,” Custas said, waving a hand dismissively as though the idea of worrying about a single wrong note was laughable. “Of course it matters that you know what notes you’re playing, and eventually you’ll want them clean and accurate, but if your timing is off, everyone in the audience can feel it.”
Tartah tilted his head slightly. “... I don’t think that can’t be upheld with the other instruments.”
“No shot,” Custas whistled through his teeth. He pondered for a moment, then brought his hands up to a steeple, miming out shapes until Tartah vaguely understood he was trying to draw a house in the air with his hands, however poorly it was. “Think about a house. When you walk in, you’ll notice the curtains and decor and colors–” Let’s not get ahead of ourselves– “but you don’t think ‘Hey, this wall is sturdy!’ when you are looking around. That doesn’t mean that the wall can be absent: the whole place will crumble to the ground, just like a song!”
Tartah adjusted the bass on his lap. He looked it over once, the smooth polishing shine and the dust-free base. “... What are you even saying? Music is like a house?”
“A song is like a house!” Custas huffed. “The vocals, guitar and keyboard– I guess those are the fancy add-ins, the ‘fluff’ of the house, if you will.” Is he just making things up at this rate? “The drums and bass are like bricks and mortar. They establish the underlying rhythm together, but the bass syncs the harmony to make the groove.”
His hand slack tiredly against his bass. “Yeah, you keep saying ‘groove’, but I don’t know what that actually means.”
Custas paused. He sat for a moment, lips pulling as he strained, then gesticulated once more. “Think Billie Jean.”
“... You are gonna need to start speaking really easy English for just a moment.”
“You know the song!” Custas grumbled. He reached into his baggy pants and retrieved an old model cellphone that looked like something off a TV stream commercial that played nonstop over a decade ago, though now it lost its mentioned ‘sleek new look’ and ‘updated hardware’ it initially sold because of. Custas punched his fingers against the home button for a moment or two, impatient as the screen slowly booted up.
His passcode was clear from where Tartah sat so close to him: a simple ‘1985’ that he’d need to try and forget to not feel so awkward about accidentally invading a piece of his privacy regardless of how laid out it was for him. Custas went through his apps, letting out a frustrated groan when the screen lagged until he reached something positive and he began typing out the name he just called out.
He held his phone on the flat of his hand, sighing through his nose. “This is the instrumental of the song. Listen closely to the individual instruments, alright?”
Tartah leaned slightly closer, brow furrowed in concentration. Custas’ old phone was clearly not designed with the intention of two people huddling around it to listen to music, but they remained close as they both strained to listen. The speakers crackled faintly when Custas pressed play, producing a thin, tinny version of a song that Tartah did recognize, but he didn’t know where from. Still, when he glanced up to make a teasing comment about the quality, he paused upon seeing Custas’ face closer, also pressing to listen, his eyes closed and his head bobbing lightly as though already entranced, as if spellbound by what Tartah could only assume was the most ‘grooving’ song in the world to him.
“Hear it?” Custas asked and Tartah jumped a little, his knee accidentally bumping Custas as he realized he was staring and most certainly not concentrating as hard as he needed to on the task at hand.
Custas’ knee bumped his in return, and Tartah closed his eyes. The beat of drums was clear. A steady thump thump, thump thump, thump thump. Following that was… staticy. He frowned a little, closing his eyes tighter.
“Do you hear the bass?”
Tartah shook his head. “Um, I hear a weird… sound, but I don’t think it’s a bass.”
“Are you talking about the synth? Keyboard?”
“.... Sure.”
Custas chuckled. Tartah’s hands tightened in his lap, but the harder he tried, he really couldn’t detect what Custas was referring to. Embarrassed, he mumbled, “Are the drums and bass playing the same thing? Are they layered?”
“Not even close.” With that, Custas flipped the phone around, chewing his bottom lip as he lingered over the keyboard, then typed in something new. Once he was finished, he scooted further forward in his seat, their heads nearly side by side with the phone between them. A new instrumental began, and, just as before, Tartah felt like he was going cross-eyed pinpointing the instruments. He supposed that was natural. He never thought to consider all the components in music before. It’s built upon multiple skills, multiple people’s efforts… He didn’t really consider it when just listening to whatever on the radio.
When he checked his friend with a little raise of his head, Custas was already watching him carefully, waiting for some sign of recognition. His brows rose with encouragement, or he was just being pushy. “... I hear drums?”
Custas sighed, holding out his opposite hand. “Give me your hand.”
The request was so simple that Tartah didn’t even hesitate to leave the bass and set his hand in Custas’. Custas had that same focused expression he wore whenever he was explaining technique or proper bass etiquette— like he was solving a puzzle for Tartah in order to show him how to defeat the problem. He supposed reverse-engineering worked for math: the teacher needs to know the equation inside and out in order to be able to pass down the knowledge.
With a careful turn so his palm was face-up, he cradled it in his, his thumb reaching around to the front to rest on the center of his hand. Custas, seemingly deciding not to acknowledge the awkwardness Tartah began to feel at all, adjusted himself, knocked their knees together, and Tartah once more wondered if he was doing it intentionally.
Probably not.
Custas was simply comfortable. Hopefully, and that’s all that matters, he guessed. He eyed the cane against the wall once more.
“Okay,” Custas said, quieting as he focused on the instrument. His eyes fell shut, brow smoothing out as he began to listen. “I want you to pay attention to what I tell you to feel.”
“What I should feel?” Tartah asked in return, smile gone crummy as he tried to make sense of that.
Custas provided no further explanation, but soon there was a rhythmic press in his hand. Oh. He’s tapping to the sound to focus on. Clearly, Tartah thought dryly as he tried to match the pace of his finger with the instrument in the back of the song. He tried to ignore everything else and pay attention to the vibration he felt when playing the bass, hoping to pinpoint it through noise alone, to the difference between the notes, to the way one sound lingered and another disappeared.
Except his attention kept slipping and he knew in his heart he wouldn’t be able to get it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear it, but Custas’ method was proving to be distracting.
His fingers were still pressed against Tartah’s knuckles, and they were warm against his skin. His thumb was steady, not missing a beat, and each movement caused a small jump in Custas’ forearm, hidden strength beneath his darker skin coming out only when accompanied by what he was: art. There was a strange elegance in how he immediately found tempo, kept pace with the steady bass, and did it all while looking utterly relaxed.
When Custas looked up after at least a minute of drumming on his hand, Tartah realized, belatedly, that he had stopped listening entirely. “Tartah? Are you hearing it?”
Tartah shook his head.
Custas immediately softened, a sigh escaping him as his thumb rested in the center of Tartah’s palm. “That’s okay. I guess things come better with time. Let me think: there’s probably a song with an even stronger bass that I’m forgetting…”
As if he could forget anything about music. Tartah drew his legs back, his feet tucking under his chair as he muttered, “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be learning, but I can’t even discern what you are trying to point out.”
Custas frowned. “Tartah.”
“I know it’s only been a few weeks,” Tartah continued before Custas could reassure him as he always tried. His fingers curled slightly against his palm, his fingertips almost brushing Custas’ thumb which began to run in a smooth, short line along his skin back and forth. It was nothing compared to the faint memory of the bass’ vibration when he first picked up the instrument and felt the power ringing through his body. “I know I’m not supposed to immediately understand everything, but you keep explaining things that sound like it should be easy, and I feel like I’m missing some obvious piece that everyone else already knows.”
I always am. He crumpled a little in his seat, dragging a hand down his face.
Custas tilted his head. “Dude, I doubt anyone who doesn’t play music knows the importance of a bass until it’s absent. And you are a newbie: if you picked up on things too fast, you wouldn’t need me to teach you. That’d suck.”
“Yeah,” Tartah said through years of exhaustion, “but–”
Custas gave Tartah’s hand a small squeeze before finally letting go, though he didn’t pull away immediately. His fingers lingered for just a second as if debating his next course of action, then he withdrew and settled his hand on the bass. “When you first started carving, did you look at a finished piece and instantly know every cut the person made to get it to look like that? Or how much pressure to use or— I dunno– what knife or something? The tools?”
Tartah gave him an odd look. “... No.”
“K, well, did that mean you weren’t capable of learning just because you couldn’t see the individual details and components that made the end product?”
Tartah sighed. “That’s different. I understand carving.”
Custas gave him his own look in return, pushing against the bass to shove Tartah into the back of his seat, the instrument gingerly digging into his ribs in retaliation. He received a weak glare in return, one that was met with a challenging, almost frustrated huff from Custas, and Tartah quietly admitted, “I don’t think I’m comfortable being outright bad with things. If I can’t do something, even on the easiest level, I probably won’t ever be able to do it at all. It’s an exercise in futility to keep trying to do something you just can’t do.”
“But you aren’t outright bad,” Custas claimed, holding his phone up with a little shake. “You identified the drums, and though you didn’t know the words, you could tell other instruments were there as well.”
“I couldn’t tell where the bass was in either song,” Tartah argued petulantly and Custas rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, because you are still working out the relationship between the instruments! Drums are loud! Bass is quiet, and sometimes they do work like that in tandem. It’s a good instinct to narrow in on the drums, then puzzle the rest out from there. It’s better than some who just hear a cluster of noise, so don’t get down on yourself.”
Tartah felt the bass lighten against his chest and he sat up again. He looked down at the instrument slung to him, his bottom lip feeling a bit pushed out even if he was trying to not get stressed about— He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t tell if it was a fear of failure or a fear of the repetition of his life of failure. “That’s… really annoying.”
“Yup!” Custas laughed. Tartah sighed, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased. Custas noticed. Their knees brushed again, but this time, Custas kept their touch firm. “... You are too hard on yourself.”
When the lesson wrapped up, Custas stood for the door only to lean against it, effectively trapping Tartah as he stood and put his case strap over his shoulder. He raised a single eyebrow and Custas only grinned.
“Soooooo, where’s Spot?” He asked, tapping his cane as if mimicking impatience. Tartah paled, hitting his hand to his forehead.
“O-Oh, he’s done, I just… I forgot him at home.” That was true. Spot was completed: painted and sitting all pretty on his desk in the color he’d taken a while ago as well as two others from the same section, a lighter and a darker one to give some contrast. He had to wait for the oil to dry for a while, but he had intended to bring the bird in today.
“Shucks, guess you’ll have to come again, right?” Custas chortled, opening the door for the two of them. Just as they got into the hallway, Custas’ phone let out a text tone. Tartah thought nothing of it as he led them out, though he did look when he stopped hearing footsteps following him. He turned to catch Custas reading something on his phone, and… Tartah watched for a moment. Custas had an odd up-turn of his lips in his natural, relaxed state, as though he was omniscient and unshakable, always pleased and rewarded. This was the first time he ever looked truly irritated, and it did bring some relief that Tartah’s never seen him with an expression like that before when dealing with him.
He cleared his throat, jarring Custas from whatever he was looking at. He offered a feeble smile. “Is everything alright?”
Custas took a moment, then put his phone back into his pocket. He shrugged carelessly, but the wrought tightness in his shoulders portrayed the opposite. “Yeah, it’s whatever.”
He even sounded more dismissive than usual, a grunt to the end of his sentence in how his voice dropped off. What could have changed his mood so quickly? Was it–
… What was it?
It’s not like Tartah would have a guess. His knowledge of his friend, if they could really be called such with how much they knew each other, was limited. Hell, with all he knew about Custas, all he could say was he was just as he expected a music shop employee to be like, and there were probably thousands upon millions more of those in the country. Hundreds of teachers, countless bass players. He glanced back at Custas as he walked to the counter, cheeks just distended like a pouting child. Someone their age and with his talents should look so put out in a place of establishment. It’d be unbecoming to anyone else if their teacher behaved in such a way after what might be just a change in the weather on an app.
But still, would anyone do?
Would anyone be capable of what Custas could do?
“I…” Tartah’s hand gripped tight on the bass strap as he fought for some words that wouldn’t seem too pushy. Finally, he settled with, “Um, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you just…” Yeah, he’s being way too familiar with him right now. This is weird. They aren’t close enough to be butting in when Custas was clearly frustrated with whatever he saw. Tartah probably is making it worse by not dropping it. He’s really not good with people, is he? Despite his grandpa, friends, the teachers that loved him and the nice customers at the shop, he should acknowledge his limitations. Acknowledge them more often or something, at least. “... you seem annoyed. Is there… anything I can do to help or…?”
Custas watched him for a moment, lips straight, and after a good few seconds, he shook his head. His hand raised, ruffling his hair like a shaggy dog trying helplessly to scratch at an itchy ear, then groaned, throwing his phone onto the counter. He turned, leaning against the cabinet with his hands on his face, slowly pulling down as though exasperated.
“I’ll be honest: it’s too much to explain,” Custas replied. He drummed his hand against his opposite arm. “Maybe someday ‘cause you’ll get earfuls eventually, but I don’t want to go over it right now. I’m kinda… Yeah, another time or something.”
Tartah nodded. “That’s okay! Just wanted you to know, uh, that the emotional dumping isn’t just one sided!”
Custas managed a little, pathetic smile at that as if only to humor him. Ah. He could see the joke failed to land as he envisioned and he wanted to kick himself for it. Right. Time to head out then. “I’ll see you next week or sooner. If I’m nearby, I’ll bring in Spot.”
The worst part of seeing Custas for the bass lessons is leaving. As weird as that sounds, it's not because of some co-dependence manifested through weird trauma loads and Tartah disliking his dad. No, the reason he hated leaving was because after straining his arms for an hour, he has to carry the bass home with only his two feet. Somewhere in the attic, hopefully, was a bike in pristine condition, awaiting someone of his exact build to ride it; until he finds it, he remains stuck walking the 25 minute trek home. The sights of the city were… alright. He didn’t have to walk in any areas that were too worn down or filthy, so there was little to complain about beyond the ache in his soles.
When he arrived, the shop was in its final leg of service for the day. He slipped through the front door, calling a familiar greeting so his grandpa didn’t get up too fast for only him. His grandpa was already at the counter anyways when he got toward the back of the shop though, a twinkling in his eyes that made Tartah falter.
“You just missed it,” Grandpa said with a wagging finger, then he patted the counter where a piece of paper was. Tartah peered down at it and the scribbled writing of a string of numbers that looked nothing like their order requests. “One of your friends called the shop askin’ for you, but I told them you were out for the day. I got their number: they wanted you to call them back when you had a moment to spare.”
“Oh, thank you.” Tartah took the piece of paper between his fingers, inspecting it. Well. It wasn’t an area code he was familiar with, so the person had to be from further away. For a brief moment, Custas crossed his brain before clear logic pressed forward: there were only a select handful of people who’d reach out to him through his job here, and Custas wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t even sure Custas knew about the shop. He hadn’t told him: he knew that because otherwise Custas would probably know too much about him to have broken down the other day in an anxiety fueled stupor. Well, what would Custas do to interact with Tartah’s world? He doesn't paint. End of worries there! No need to linger on them.
He climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Leaning his case against the empty corner in his room, he shut the door then approached his bed where he sat to dial the number in. Once he doublechecked to make sure he had input the information correctly, he let it ring. On the third one, it picked up and a familiar voice greeted his ear.
“Coco?” he said, grinning as she repeated his name back as though equally surprised and delighted to have been sought out. He stammered over himself before managing out a polite end to his initial greeting, “I’m sorry for not being timely in calling you back; I didn’t work today, so I wasn’t in the shop until a moment ago. How did your roommate problem go?”
“It’s no biggie! And it worked out well enough!” Coco giggled as though it was nothing but a funny memory now. He found himself relieved at that, his eyes slipping closed as he fell back onto his pillow.
“That’s good to hear. You matched the paint?”
“Well, actually, it’s not quite right. I feel like it’s maybe a bit too light, but I think she appreciated the effort. I was too nervous to keep mixing it; I used way, way too much paint. I guess I got ahead of myself in my excitement to fix it fast.” There was some shuffling on the other end. He wondered if she was cozy too. Or maybe she was stretching out her fabrics to create something with. He licked his lips as he thought about what she could be making. “I think… I think we might be okay now. I don’t know. I have a good feeling.”
“You got the friendly roommate you always wanted. That is something worth celebrating,” Tartah hummed and Coco agreed with another hushed giggle. He could envision her tucking her hair behind her ear as she did.
“Agott can be standoffish, but I get it. I’m not nearly as good as her with painting yet, and I did intrude on her space when I first moved in, but I’ve decided to be less annoying from now on!” Tartah bit back a little smile at the proclamation. He leaned his cheek into the phone.
“I don’t think you are annoying.”
“That’s because you are sweet.”
Tartah’s eyes opened, staring up at his ceiling as his cheeks warmed. He picked his thumb as he tried to find an appropriate response because What? He can’t just– he has to say something nice back, and acknowledge the compliment, but she’s? Complimenting him? He thought back to his friends outside the convenience store chortling about a girl who captured his attention. Is that what’s happening right now? Were they… that? How was he supposed to know! It’s not like he’s some suave ladies man like Cedric proclaimed to be. Before he managed a response, she sighed, all light and airy and careless despite how she’s proven to be otherwise quite some times now. “Anyways, there was a reason I called out of the blue… along with the fact it looked like I wouldn’t be able to get there before you guys closed.”
Tartah could imagine that she didn’t think to call at first, then simply remembered to check the times just as she was heading out the door. Either way– That’s a better place to start– or focus on. Sitting up, Tartah cleared his throat to hum, "That’s right, what’s up?”
"I wanted to ask you something."
She sounds… No, he’s not jumping any guns. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the phone. "And… What is it?"
She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, she seemed to be quieter. It almost felt like she was whispering into the phone, and, as a consequence, right into his ear, "I was wondering if you'd want to see me sometime in the near future…?”
Tartah blinked. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. "... See you?"
Coco hummed in shy affirmation and Tartah chewed the inside of his cheek in thought. “That’s– Ah, I have to work tomorrow if you want to swing by. Did– did you need more supplies? If you’d like, I can take an order request on the phone and have it ready for you in the morning. I can even let you in if you manage to arrive an hour early again.”
"Um, I was actually hoping-" He could practically hear her smile through the phone at his recommendation and he couldn’t help but smile back, pursing his lips. "Maybe we could go somewhere together instead? Outside of your work?”
No way. No chance? Right? Tartah brought his knees to his chest, eyes flickering about his cramped bedroom atop a cozy painting shop in the middle of a large city of those just like himself, and even more capable of– well, more. Artists, musicians, talented composers and skilled craftsmen, a city filled with more than the average run-of-the-mill walker on the street he saw as he made the same dull walk almost two miles away to the music store, where boundless creators and history makers could be walking in and out the same door. How he ever got the time of day there, how he ever got here… What was this summer doing to him?
She was aware that there was a world of people within her grasp, far more– His hand closed into a fist.
Stop thinking about it.
"So..." she prompted carefully. "Would you like to?"
Tartah found himself sitting fully upright now, one foot planted on the floor without realizing when he'd moved. He went back to his door, ensuring it was closed, then paced in the center of his room, regaining his bearings.
"I..." He glanced toward the calendar hanging beside his desk, mentally sorting through the upcoming deliveries, the instrument waiting in the corner, the crammed hallway of his deserted father’s useless shit, his grandpa getting hungry for dinner soon downstairs, and Cedric and Tovi’s hangout plans— “I’ll see what good days I have this week. I can text you when I know for sure: It won’t be long.”
“I will look forward to your message, Tartah!” Something warm settled awkwardly beneath his ribs as he settled, his feet stopping on his worn-down rug.
"Right." He swallowed, managing a smile despite his nerves. “I’ll send it soon. The moment I know.” Finally, the questions got the better of him and he stiltedly added with a hopefully nonchalant chuckle, “Um, was there anything you wanted to do?”
A small, comfortable silence stretched between them regardless of how secretly antsy that made Tartah, and finally, after some more ruffling on the receiver, Coco said, “I want to keep it a surprise for now, but we could meet at a coffee shop or go out to eat somewhere. Oh! I could see if I could pack us a little picnic. Anywhere works for what I want to show you, but I’d prefer if it was just us.”
Prefer if it was just us? This was certainly— Tartah raised his shirt, burying his head into his collar to breathe heavily out into, masking the noise.
“Yeah, that’s okay!” Tartah managed through a squeak. His cheeks burned as he tugged his face from the cotton and sucked in a good chunk of fresh air. “Sounds fun! I can— I can look for places if you’d like! Or if we’d like to do a picnic, I can pack some things here. Make it easier on the two of us.”
The two of us. Oh gosh, Cedric and Tovi: were they onto something?
Coco gasped and he could hear a happy hum in her throat as she announced, “Sounds like a plan then! I should probably let you go then, but it was nice talking to you for a bit! I apologize for reaching out through the shop, but please save my number, okay?”
Tartah nodded. "I will. Goodbye, Coco."
"Bye, Tartah!"
The line clicked dead.
Silence flooded his bedroom as he threw his phone onto his rumpled comforter. He stared at the wall in front of him, head racing now that he was back to himself in his room. Then, he raced to the door and tugged it open. Sticking his head out into the hallway, he shouted, “Grandpa?”
“Yes?” His grandpa sounded like he was in the kitchen just down the stairs. Tartah hesitated.
“My– uh, I’m off next Sunday, right?”
There was a pause. “Are you wanting to meet up with your friend?”
Tartah’s face burned and he curled his hands around the edge of the door frame. “Well, she wanted to do something, but, uh, it won’t be for long! Could I maybe–”
“It’s summer!” His grandpa snapped from downstairs, an air of amusement in his tone as he grumbled. “Call in sick!”
Tartah eased, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he said, “I think I’ll be sick the day after tomorrow!”
“Rotten kids! Always calling in!” Grandpa called, then in a much friendlier tone, “If I called in to that one place down the road, would you get the order? Fried rice?”
“Yep! Let me know when!” Tartah left his door open a crack, circling back to his phone. His hand trembled for a moment as he unlocked the screen. For a brief moment, he hesitated over the blank number, then assigned it a contact: Coco. From there, he immediately went to his friend’s group chat which was full of Tovi complaining about having to ride the bus to work and getting stuck behind a train, of which was answered by Cedric with overly pixelated gifs of random dancing with glitter text with the most ‘cool story, bro’ wording following it. Tartah rolled his eyes and began to type. Then delete. Then type again.
Tartah: What constitutes a date?
Cedric: if you kissed at the end of it
Tovi: if you called it a date and they understood it as a date *shrug* then its a date. Did you ask someone on one???
Cedric: just use the emoji next time larper. This dude.
Cedric: Is it the girl you ditched us for?
Tovi: you better not have gone on a date without telling us >:(
Tartah ran his tongue over his teeth as he sunk back onto his bed. It counts if they both know and they… he wheezed. Yeah. So this wouldn’t be a date then. He’s not that kind of person. He doesn’t know her all that well, and yes, she’s pretty and nice, but that doesn’t mean he can just kiss her because she wants to go on a picnic!
Tartah: Ok. What if you don’t kiss? It’s not a date?
Cedric: Then you r just friends.