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“Mr–”
“Dagda.”
The principal gave the man a weathered look and earned a tight smile at the uttered informality, chalking it up mentally no doubt as more proof of why his son was doomed from the start. “This is the third infraction this week that has required administrative referrals, and the third time you’ve been called here.”
“Yes,” Dagda muttered, his hands clasped tightly in his lap as he looked along the impressive walls of accolades from the woman before him wearing the stupidest bright pink cat-glasses and orange blazer combo Custas has ever seen. Each time he came in here he had to hold back expletives not only about the blatant injustice of him being there at all— but also how she was one to talk to him about dress code when they first met when she waltzed around looking like that. “And I do apologize for the behavior. We are working at home for solutions, so I appreciate–”
“Sir, let's be more proactive in our approach–” Her tone dipped in the same way her eyes did as she stared at Dagda’s worn out band t-shirt and jeans. It was among his nicer clothes and Custas glared at her as she continued, pushing her glasses up her snooty nose. “Your student has a truancy streak we’ve shown immense leniency for, has been noted as disruptive and disrespectful toward his teachers, and now has escalated to fighting with the other students.”
Dagda’s head snapped to the side to stare openly at Custas who met his stare with leveled, tired eyes. He gave his guardian an open shrug. “Ma’am, you said he got into a fight?”
“Yes, he and three other students–”
“He’s in a wheelchair.”
She sighed as though she had to explain this at least ten times over. She probably did have to. “Yes, yes— He threw his bookbag over the second story main hall balcony and pelted three kids with his books on his way to second period.”
Dagda’s head jerked to the side again. “Did you throw your instrument?”
Custas gaped at him. “What? No!”
Dagda gave him an encouraging yet stern look. “Custas, that’s very expensive–”
“I didn’t throw it!” Custas exclaimed and that seemed to be enough for now as the principal cleared her throat.
“As hopefully effective deterrence for such intolerable behavior per what our handbook has laid out and we’ve discussed thoroughly in the past, your student is suspended for the next three days; as a result, he’ll miss even more instruction time. I want you to understand that… sometimes private academies don’t work for all children. Our institution is above the masses in our ideologies and successful integration of more difficult concepts at a younger age than most in the area. It’s not uncommon that some students would find more basic instruction easier.”
“... Yes, I’ve heard of your school's reputation,” Dagda replied through a dry throat. He offered another smile to her, folding his grease stained hands together in a tight clasp. “That’s why I’d like to keep him here, please. I apologize sincerely for his recent behavior. I swear it’s just a fluke: he’s an angel at home.”
“Sir, it’s only a fluke if he’s not at risk for expulsion. I’d recommend looking at your options regardless of your intentions as his father.”
Dagda took his handles at the end of the meeting and pushed him out. Custas could only imagine what expression he was wearing as he pushed him toward the exit of the office to collect what Custas needed from his locker for the next few days, then they’d go home and… talk, he guessed. When they reached his locker, Custas stared blatantly at the lock high above his head until Dagda apologized and stepped in to help him open it. As he got out the books Custas instructed him to, he asked in a quiet tone, the one he’d only drop to when it was late and he was gathering himself to sing a goodnight tune, “Custas, are you happy here?”
No, not really. Custas shook his head. “I’m trying my best, Dagda. I really am.”
“I know— God, I know,” Dagda exhaled, settling the books and notebooks in Custas’ arms. He lingered, looking in the vacant locker before shutting it gently, not a single noise emitting from it. Louder yet was the classroom just twenty feet down the hall with its door open as an instructor yelled directions out to the class. “It’s just…” Dagda leaned his head on the lockers. “Have you… made any friends?”
Custas refused to look at him when Dagda turned to him in lack of receiving a response. He knelt down, peering up at his son from his hunch as he set a hand on his shoulder. “Do you like it here? Genuinely?”
I have to. You put me here, you work so much more now to afford it to make up for everything, like any of this was your fault, and I’m trying so, so hard. I swear, I am trying. I know it doesn’t look like it. “I’m—”
“Custas!” They both jumped, looking down the hall with equally wide eyes as a boy Custas is certain he’s never seen once in his life stood down the hall, braced as though ready to tackle him. He wore a band on his arm— A teacher’s assistant? Was this his free period? – and he marched a little closer before stopping and shouting, “I’ll see you when you get back!”
Who the hell is he? Custas blinked, eyebrows furrowing incredulously as a weathered old man stepped out from one of the classroom doors, but before he could complain about the noise, the unfamiliar boy darted toward the man and joined him back inside the classroom. Dagda watched, struck silent as he slowly rose. When Custas looked up, he faltered at his adoptive father’s expression.
“Is that… one of your friends?” Custas almost wished it was. Dagda looked exhausted most days, but his dreary, disheartened look seemed to evaporate entirely. There was an energy buzzing under his skin now. There was hope renewed. Custas couldn’t bring himself to say, No, I don’t know who that is. Most likely it’s some guy who is pissed I hurt his friends. “I didn’t– You never mentioned him before. What’s his name?”
Custas scrambled. “It’s— It’s not that big of a deal. We, uh, we just hang out at lunch.”
Dagda took his handles back and began to push him down the hallway. The conversation was far from over. “That’s so lovely; he looks like a nice boy. Is he in your classes? How did you two meet? Does–”
Custas hated lying to Dagda. He fessed up before he even bothered to on most occasions, but for today he gave him this. He let him think Custas could have something here, even something as small as a friend. As if.
When Coustas returned to school next week, he was surprised to find that boy standing right inside the front doors, eyes scanning over each person walking in. Dagda had dropped him off, then headed back home to prepare for his shift, so Custas had to wait until the flow of students became less intense in order to sneak to the door and press the handicap button. Once he punched the metal sheet, the boy noticed him and began to march over, forcing the door open faster than the mechanism.
It was indeed the same boy for sure now that he wasn’t obscured by the darkened glass. He had short red hair and silver eyes like a man beyond his years would possess (seriously, who has that color eye?), and wore his uniform without a single crease in it unlike Custas’ rumpled one. His pasty arm held firm as Custas crept into the main entrance, expecting a whack on his head or some form of retaliation, but the boy only grunted, “You are so late— we need to get to class.”
Custas blinked in his daze as he muttered, “Um… yeah, okay.”
He was going to be late no matter what, but the boy appeared urgent in their ushering as he held the next door open, then announced, “We share first period– c’mon, we don’t have time to stop at your locker.”
With that, the unknown boy spun on his heels and began to head right toward the central staircase to the second floor where the older kids in their middle school. So, they were both 8th graders and Custas just… hasn’t noticed him? Well, he hardly is on time to class anyways…
Awkwardly, Custas stared at the stairs, his finger gliding uselessly along his wheel as the boy kept rushing up. He cautiously turned to the side, quietly wheeling himself toward the far left hall when suddenly he heard a scramble and a sudden, less severe sounding, “Oh!”
He looked up to see the boy had indeed looked behind him, his face pink as he took in the situation. Almost as quickly as he climbed, the boy raced back down. “I’m sorry, where… how do you get up the stairs?”
Custas couldn’t grasp what was happening. “... The service elevator?”
The boy looked lost for a moment. “... Where is that?”
“By the theatre.”
“The theatre?” And there returned the boy’s anxiousness. “That’s across the entire school!”
Yeah, do you understand why I’m always late to things? “... It’s fine, it’s not that bad. I’ll see you in class–”
Hands suddenly grabbed his chair and Custas stiffened, hands locking in tension and dismay as he was jolted forward. The response wasn’t registered, or perhaps the boy didn’t care as he began almost jogging with the chair, pushing it faster than Custas would be able to on his own. Instead, he clasped his bookbag to his chest, his other hand clenched around the closest arm rest in case the boy decided to stop abruptly and throw him off through the power of physics. An object in motion or something like that.
Custas tried to pipe up to slow down, to leave it be, but his requests were met with quiet refusals until they reached the service elevator. Custas spared a glare to the boy as the redhead confidently pressed the up button, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Good! Just– just gotta do it all again and we might make it on time.”
“No, we’ll both be late now.”
“What?” Custas nodded along to the boy’s exasperation. The student appeared slightly winded from barreling across the hallways with Custas in tow, but now he looked downright irritated. “No, no, we made good time!”
Custas adjusted his grip on his bookbag, settling it back into his lap. “The elevator takes around five minutes to come,” he explained. “Then another several minutes to actually ascend once we’re inside.”
The boy stared at him. “… You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s why you didn’t want me to rush?”
Custas nodded once. “It was unnecessary, but I guess I appreciate the effort… You can go to one of the staircases and maybe make it on time if you run again.”
The boy’s mouth fell open before he dragged both hands down his face in disbelief. The boy looked indignant on his behalf in a way Custas found strangely confusing because— he still didn’t really know who he was talking to or why. He's a little surprised the boy was more concerned about class than whatever he hunted Custas down for. Wasn't that just a waste of time entirely then? Couldn't he have talked to him some time else? “That explains so much.”
Custas blinked. “What does?”
The boy looked equally surprised by his confusion. “You're late all the time to social studies and band, and I never see you at lunch. It makes sense if the resources you use to get everywhere are this awful.”
“You're in band class?” Well, that revealed a significantly overlooked piece of knowledge he was refusing to directly acknowledge.
“Oh, wait—right.” The boy awkwardly shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck. “You probably don’t know who I am– I don’t think we’ve really talked… extensively. My name is Tartah, I sit right behind you in social studies.”
Custas searched his memory blankly.
The boy faltered. “... By the window?”
Nothing.
Tartah let out a wounded noise. “I lent you a pencil last week!”
“Oh.” Custas paused. “… Yeah, I remember now. You, um, I returned the pencil, right?”
Tartah looked floored as he muttered, “No, and so you really don’t remember me. I’m that forgettable?” Tartah sighed and leaned against the wall beside the elevator just as the ancient machinery released a deep, groaning crunch. Both boys stared toward the creaking, rumbling shaft with great reluctance.
As expected, Tartah got antsy after that. “The elevator hardly looks safe. Is there any way else you can get to the second floor?”
Custas shrugged. “By crawling up and dragging my wheelchair behind, sure. It’s better to just wait, but you can go on ahead. Really, I’m used to this.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Tartah muttered. He paced, turning sharply with each lap as he lost himself in thought. Just as the door dinged and proceeded to not open after thirty seconds, Tartah said, “Do you mind if I help you up the stairs?”
Custas felt his cheeks go warm and he whirled back in his chair. “What? You want to what— carry me up the stairs?”
Tartah nodded a little but he too looked equally unimpressed with the plan. “Well, I didn’t exactly picture it to go elegantly, but yes. Probably. I can try.”
In the end, they migrated toward the nearest stairwell anyway, Tartah pushing the wheelchair and Custas using the moment to rest before undoubtedly having to struggle greatly in their ill-thought-out plan. Unfortunately, the moment Tartah actually stood before the staircase, his confidence began deteriorating at an alarming rate. He moved his finger in the air, counting out sixteen steps before drumming his hand on the chairback, thinking. Tartah carefully tipped it backward onto its larger wheels. “Maybe if I angle it right…”
Custas immediately tightened both hands around the armrests. “I don’t appreciate your confidence level right now.”
“No, no, I think I have it…”
“You absolutely do not.”
Tartah attempted the first stair anyway. The chair lurched sideways so violently after only one wheel hooked onto a step that Custas had to grab the sides hard enough for his knuckles to pale while Tartah nearly lost control of the entire thing, scrambling for better footing in his shock. Tartah hastily lowered the wheelchair back onto all four wheels, sighing raggedly.
“… Right,” he admitted breathlessly. “That’s probably too dangerous. I figured women do that with baby strollers enough that… well..”
Custas looked offended. “You are seriously comparing a medical device to a baby stroller?”
Tartah chewed on the inside of his cheek, blissfully ignoring his companion’s complaint. Every few seconds Tartah glanced back toward the staircase, eyebrows furrowed in concentration until Custas muttered again, “This isn’t your responsibility. I appreciate the help, but it’s really okay.”
“That idea is starting to upset me on principle. Just because you are used to things like that doesn’t mean it’s fine.” Custas’ lips parted in response, but he couldn’t find it in him to protest as Tartah finally snapped his fingers. “Would you mind terribly if I carried you instead? You didn’t seem happy about that initially…”
Custas stared at him for several seconds before asking carefully, “Are you under the impression that I’m light because you could push me around?”
“No, but you’re definitely lighter than the things my grand dad has me carry around.”
Custas sighed deeply. Despite the complaints resting in the back of his throat, Custas still relented after another minute of arguing. What’s really the worst that could happen– he’s already in a wheelchair with two He supposed death was next, and he’d have laughed at the thought if not for the fact that that likelihood seemed to be increasing from the moment Tartah began to try and pick him up from his chair.
The boy crouched in front of the wheelchair, muttering half-formed plans to himself under his breath before sliding one arm beneath Custas’ knees and the other behind his back. Custas instinctively stiffened as he was hoisted upward with far less grace than either of them would have preferred. Tartah nearly lost balance immediately upon straightening himself out, stumbling sideways hard enough that Custas’ hands shot out and latched onto his shoulders on reflex, grasping him tight. “Careful!”
“I am being careful,” Tartah protested through visible strain. He made a step toward the stairs and wheezed. Upon facing the next obstacle, Tartah let out a determined grunt, his cheeks already red from effort, and took the first step upward.
“You can still put me down,” Custas offered dryly when he lingered there for too long.
Tartah frowned. “No. We need to get to class.”
Custas rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward anyway as Tartah finally began the slow process of climbing. The first few steps were manageable enough for an eighth grader. By the fifth stair, however, Tartah’s breathing had noticeably deepened. By the eighth, his arms had begun trembling beneath Custas’ weight despite his stubborn attempts to hide it. Even while struggling, he continuously adjusted himself to make sure Custas stayed steady in his arms, and Custas found his own hands easing as a result.
It was odd being stuck like that in the middle of a staircase, halfway up and having a stark, abrupt thought enter his mind. He’d rather us both fall than drop me, and even so, I don’t think he’d allow either one to happen.
Despite himself, Custas huffed a laugh through his nose again and tightened his grip slightly around Tartah’s shoulders when the boy slipped against the stair edge. Tartah steadied, jaw setting as he pushed forward. When they reached the top, Custas was less than gracefully set down on the top step. “I’ll get your books and your chair.”
“Chair first, please. You have to disengage the wheellocks and push the feet rests up.” Admittedly it took a bit longer than what Custas expected for Tartah to properly collapse the chair, but he brought it up and locked it as Custas asked. As he went to retrieve Custas’ books, he attempted to climb back into his chair, managing just as Tartah began climbing the steps again with the help of the sturdy chair frame and the stair railing.
As he settled back in, Custas asked, “You know, I appreciate you helping regardless of how late I am, but…” Well, this is awkward– “Why is it today that you are talking to me?”
Tartah, who had been catching his breath while handing off Custas’ books, pursed his lips. He leaned back onto his heels, expression crumbling a little as he uttered, “… Right. I guess this probably seems sudden.”
Custas waited, following his classmate out of the stairwell and into the open hall. This time, his chair’s control wasn’t taken. Tartah rubbed the back of his neck before admitting, “The fight you got in trouble for last week… I was the one who reported it.”
Custas blinked. Then, his expression twisted, nose scrunching as he hissed, “What? Why did you do that? Do you know how much trouble I got in for that?”
Tartah nodded once, gaze dropping toward the floor. “I know, and I’m very sorry. I– It was my friend getting bullied, and I didn’t know what to do until I saw you striking them with your books from the landing, so I ran to get a teacher.”
A friend? Custas glanced to the side, remembering the two girls below, the blond’s panicked voice as three boys escalated something with the duo. He did pause when he recognized one of them— Agate? She’s one of the smarter people in their grade: she gets all her math homework done on time and always aces her science projects even though most don’t leap to partner with her. Custas would attempt to just because it’d get him an easy A, but he’s certain she’d rather be with someone who doesn’t average a C in every class.
Maybe she’d cut him some slack given he, upon sparing only ten seconds of thought when viewing the situation, hurdled his bookbag with enough accuracy to strike one of the boys, then started chucking his books.
“But I told them afterward the truth!” Tartah insisted. “I explained what actually happened: the administrators wouldn’t listen. They just kept talking about how dangerous it was and how someone could’ve gotten seriously hurt. Which, yes, obviously, but they acted like you attacked them for no reason.”
Custas let out a dry laugh. “That sounds right. They’d do anything but believe I wasn’t being a hassle.”
“Again, I’m so sorry. I tried to talk to them this morning too, but they wouldn’t hear it.”
As much as Custas wanted to be upset, he found himself reluctantly accepting that Tartah sounded miserable: he didn’t appear to be lying about the guilt of what his actions caused. In fact, it looked like something he’s been carrying for the past few days if the heaviness in his posture said anything, and so Custas relented. “It’s water under the bridge. Next time you can just… say your sorry and not go through all this effort.”
Tartah tilted his head, lips pressing firm after muttering, “What are you talking about?”
“I mean…” He gestured vaguely between them. “Pushing me and helping me up the stairs. You don’t need to feel guilty and that you owe my acts of service to make up for getting me in trouble.”
“That wasn’t me ‘making it up to you,’” Tartah said immediately, sounding offended by the suggestion. “I want to be your friend.”
Custas wheels sputtered with a twitch of his hands. He jerked his head up, eyes alighting with genuine awestruck delight that threatened to surface across his lips, but he smothered it hastily to appear more chalant. “... Oh.”
When they reached their classroom, Tartah pushed open the door and they were immediately met with the pressing question of How are you twenty minutes late? Do you have a pass from the office? Before Custas could speak, Tartah cut in, “I fell behind with Mr. Nolnoa this morning, and Custas is turning in a form later to become a teacher aide, so I was explaining the responsibilities to him.”
… What?
“So, how was school?” Dagda set a paper plate before him with two pieces of pizza on it and a few baby carrots. That was their vegetable for the time being: there wasn’t much space in the hotel fridge, so he tried to keep one at a time. Custas isn’t a massive fan of them, less so after eating them for five days now, but he still ate them first to wash the taste down with Papa Tony’s Monday 5$ Medium Pizza Deal.
“It was fine,” Custas muttered through his chewing as Dagda set a water bottle down at the desk, ruffling his hair as he pulled the desk chair over for himself, tucking them both there as if it was some makeshift dining room table. What a home, Custas thought as he looked past his guardian’s shoulder to the open bathroom door where one of Dagda’s performance shirts that was washed in the sink was draped over the shower rod, the laundry stopped halfway through from when he went to pick up Custas and food. If there was one lovely thing about hotel life is the fact that room service kept them tidy and lessened the burden on Dagda, even if their methods of laundry were offputting to some.
Custas glanced toward Dagda while he picked at his pizza, and guilt settled heavily in his stomach almost immediately. He looked exhausted in a way Custas had become increasingly good at recognizing. It wasn’t the same as when he drove too long in the van and had to stretch in a truck stop for twenty minutes: those times there was still a gleam in his eyes. Now his cheeks were gaunt in a different way, eyebags darker than what a musician should have. Even his shoulders were hunched, collarbones poking out as he swallowed his bite. He gestured with his slice, then took another bite, “Is it not warm enough? I can throw it in the microwave.”
Custas shook his head and muttered, “I hung out with my friend during lunch today.”
Dagda sat up in his chair, forcing down his food before saying, “That’s great to hear. What did you guys do? Did you fill up too much from lunch? You always are so ravenous when you get home– Was it a good food day there or what?”
More like I was able to get there in time to get food. Custas kept his eyes on his pizza. “No, I’m hungry. We, uh, just sat and talked about stuff. He also carried me up the stairs today.”
Dagda huffed in amusement. “He what?”
“He got tired of waiting for the elevator; he didn’t want us to be late for class, but then he ended up getting me off the hook for it when we were late.”
A long look crossed Dagda’s face with a fond sigh. “You are going to kill me before old age does. That, or that school's layout. Please be more careful though.”
He still looked Custas over carefully afterward as though checking for injury without making it obvious. Custas pretended not to notice.
“I’m fine,” he assured him. “He struggled more than I did.”
That finally coaxed a laugh from Dagda. “I just hope he wasn’t battering around your chair. Those are very expensive to fix, so be cautious with it.”
“Oh.” Custas blinked, remembering the stalling elevator, then he leaned down to pull his backpack closer with one hand. “I need you to sign something.”
“… Another disciplinary form?”
“No,” Custas replied flatly, already fishing through the bag. He finally pulled out a folded, rumpled paper and handed it over. Dagda accepted it warily at first, but the suspicion on his face melted into surprise the moment he read the heading. In fact, he was trying hard not to smile as much as he was clearly wanting to.
“Teacher’s assistant approval form?” Dagda looked back down at the paper, running his finger along the lines as though confirming for himself it wasn’t anything negative. When he was done, he set his hand on the table, shaking his head in disbelief and unmistakable pride. “This– This is a great step forward. If you get a good teacher, I’m sure they can help you out if you are having a hard time with assignments too. Are you sure you want to give up study hall for this? I thought you used that period to catch up on assignments.”
”If you become a teacher’s assistant, I’m sure they’d let you leave early and come in late. You can even use your pass to convince other teachers to allow the same.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Arriving the following morning was nothing short in an exercise of patience. Custas set the hotel alarm clock early though Dagda remained conked out in the bed beside his until Custas managed to brace himself along the wall with the help of his forearm crutches that were discarded by the room door. Upon seeing Custas standing over him, Dagda raced forward, his hands enveloping the boy and throwing him down onto the bed.
“What do you think you are doing with those?” Dagda slurred through his awakening daze. Custas grunted, the arm bands digging into his arm uncomfortably as Dagda sat up and gave him a withered point to the chest. “We don’t use those unless you are in PT or I’m helping you: you aren’t approved of that otherwise.”
Custas rolled his eyes. “I can’t get my chair to your bedside with your instrument cases all around.”
Dagda paused, then peered over the edge and ran a hand down his face at what he saw. “I– Right, I’ll move those somewhere else.”
“Can you take me to school early so I can drop off the permission slip before class?” Custas asked and Dagda glanced at the alarm clock.
“Didn’t the sun rise two minutes ago? What’s the rush?” Dagda squinted at him for another moment as though awaiting a response he’d try to deny, but he gave up and collapsed backward against the mattress again. Custas scootched closer, their heads close as they stared up at the white hotel room’s ceiling. After a good few minutes, Dagda released a grumble that sounded like a curse then finally dragged himself upright. Custas watched him shuffle toward the tiny hotel bathroom before saying, “You should hurry.”
Dagda turned slowly in the doorway.. “You know, most kids make an excuse not to go to school at all.”
Custas stuck his tongue out at him; Despite the complaint, Dagda still disappeared into the bathroom and began getting ready. Custas smiled to himself before maneuvering toward his wheelchair. By the time Dagda emerged still in his pajama’s, Custas was already at the door. “... Don’t you want breakfast first?”
Custas hesitated. Truthfully, yes, but for once arriving early mattered a little more. “I can eat breakfast at school.”
Dagda ran a hand through his hair, then fetched a hair tie from the bathroom to pull it back. “And how much does school breakfast go for these days?” When Custas didn’t answer, Dagda found his keys and said, “Well, if you want that that’s fine, but I was going to suggest good old Donald’s pancakes.”
“We can make the stop,” Custas chirped and Dagda huffed through his nose, fondly patting his shoulder before opening the door for them. After their quick pitstop and subsequent meal in the fast food parking lot, Dagda took him to school, all the while yawning through every stoplight they passed. By the time they pulled into the school drop-off lane, there were only a handful of cars and students lingering about. Dagda climbed out first to unload the wheelchair from the back as Custas popped open his door.
“Permission slip?” he asked once Custas settled into the chair.
“In my bag.”
“Homework?”
“Sure.” Dagda held his chair back, preventing Custas from rushing off until he admitted, “I finished what made sense. We didn’t even go over some of it in class.”
“Didn’t go over it or didn’t pay attention?” Dagda replied knowingly before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of Custas’ head. “Alright, I’ll see you later. Have a good day.”
“See you,” Custas said as his chair was released. He maneuvered his hands back to the wheels and high tailed it to the front door of the school. Unlike the previous day, Tartah wasn’t waiting for him inside, so he relied on the metal button to help him in. He strolled into the foyer, eyes scouring as he came to a stop near the bottom of the main stairs. Yeah. No Tartah. Pouting a little, Custas glanced to the front office where he likely had to turn his form into, but… he said he’d come with to make sure things outside their dogmatic ways that always seemed to not align nicely with Custas.
Reluctantly, Custas turned to head toward the office– he stopped in his tracks when he suddenly heard his voice called from above him. Glancing up to the second story railing (Huh. This is a pretty far drop for books.), Tartah was there, cupping his hands by his mouth to project his voice. He stormed down the steps when Custas stopped only to join him at the base of the steps.
“I hope I didn’t have you waiting long.”
Custas shook his head, smiling a little as his friend began to walk with him to the office. “No, you were right in time.”