Chapter Text
The bell chimed above his head as he pushed open the front door, but no voice greeted him. Tartah checked the markered-in times on the We Are Open sign to the left of the door, then peered inside once more. With a quick inhale, he walked in, letting the door clatter shut behind him. He tucked away the paper he had been staring at the entire way there. One thing at a time. Get rid of this damned thing, then go home and tell grandpa about the results. Pull off both bandages at once.
Inside the music store was a lot dimmer than he anticipated. If he hadn’t walked all the way here from the school, he’d be tempted to turn around. The weight was getting too heavy on his back. Excusing himself beneath his breath, he crept further into the store, shelves lined with instrument cases towering way above his head with no ladder in sight. How many of these never get played? How long have they sat collecting dust? His hand tightened around the strap resting on his chest... This place was closed, wasn't it? Would it be weird to call out? Grandpa often forgot to adjust the signs at the shop; what if the owner was just as old and forgetful and was going to have a heartattack upon spotting a stranger lingering in the dark?
He made it through the shelves and, thankfully, there was a light on to his left where a cleared off counter sat with a register. Ushering himself over, he inspected the space for a bell to ring, but found nothing. He bit his lip, drumming his finger along the strap as he peered around, not straying too far from the counter. Finally, resigned, he shrugged off his case and set it down on the counter. He rand a hand along the case before snagging the zipper, tugging it open tooth by tooth until he could shove the top open to reveal the damned thing he had been carrying the past two miles. Perhaps he could call the shop, alert the owner, and have them take it off his hands immediately.
“Woah, is that a Rickenbacker 4001?” Tartah gasped, shoulders jumping as he looked up, but no one stood behind the counter still. He checked over his shoulder, but once again found no one, but as he squinted at the shelves, a low whistle caught his attention. “Up here.”
Tartah blinked, glancing back at the instrument, then followed the directions to look up… and there was someone looking down at him from a railing upstairs in what looked like an expanded loft above the registers and office? Tartah pursed his lips, then raised his hand to give a little wave. It was returned, and then the person began clambering down, all long limbs and jumbled coordinated, one hand clutching at the railing while his body maneuvered almost like a slack puppet. Was he sober? He didn’t look much older than Tartah, if he was even older at all. Tartah drew back an uncomfortable step as the attendant reached the bottom of the stairs almost a minute after he began descending, then reached for a cane. Tartah quickly averted his gaze, mentally berating himself as the guy made his way to the counter. Upon reaching it, he didn’t even bother with the instrument, sparing a moment to bore a level stare into Tartah’s wide silver eyes. He gave Tartah a toothy grin, then pointed to the instrument and said in a silly tone, “Can I touch it?”
Tartah stared at him for a moment: he took in the baggy slacks and rumpled band tee, the line of bracelets on his wrist and the half-lidded gaze that met him evenly. The tight grip of his hand on the black cane. Finally, he nodded, pushing the case forward a little, but the man simply reached in and took it upon balancing his cane on the desk side, inspecting the bass over with his dark eyes before tsking under his breath. He set it back down just as fast. “Got some broken strings, huh? K. Give me a minute.”
“Actually, I–” Before Tartah could get a word out, the man took only a few long strides with his cane and disappeared into the back. Tartah huffed under his breath, shifting his weight between his feet. After three minutes, his attendant returned, coiling a paper packet between his fingers back and forth. When he came into view again, he waved it at Tartah, then said, “Want help installing them too? It won’t take long.”
“Actually,” Tartah finally got out. He slid the case over another inch or two, keeping his distance from it. “Can I sell this here?”
The man paused, the packet in his hands stilling between two fingers. He raised an eyebrow. “What? Are you stupid?”
When Tartah appeared nothing short of aghast at that response, the attendant cut in before an offended answer could reach between them. “Not like that. I mean… Dude, do you even know what you are trying to sell?”
Tartah frowned, licking over his teeth in thought. He muttered back, "What do you mean?"
The attendant glanced down at the open case again, then carefully lifted the instrument inside like it was a breathing life. He brought it against him as though he was miming readying it to play, and his fingers stroked over the two present strings. He closed his eyes as if envisioning the sensation of the instrument, and when they opened again he gave Tartah a look. “This isn’t some junk you find in your old man’s attic: Rickenbacker’s this old with the original finish and good upkeep can be hard to come by. They got this unique growl that paints their music so much cooler than other basses, and it just works with their midrange and distinctive sound. This thing’s a treasure, and you are daring to sell it...”
Tartah listened politely, but his expression remained blank. It wasn’t lost on the man, who paused with a little pout as he sighed out, “You don’t play, do you?”
Tartah shook his head. “No, it actually… was my dad’s that I found in an attic. I don’t play.”
The attendant paused. "Really?" He gave Tartah a quick up-down, then drew the instrument closer. “Okay, so why do you have it?”
Tartah’s fingers flexed at his sides. He gave a half-baked shrug, now staring at the clock on the wall near a bunch of old music flyers for local bands performing, one placed on top of one another and never removed, like they were building their own unique wallpaper in only that corner of the store. He supposed it was the only one not decked in shelves.
“My grandpa wanted me to clear out my dad’s stuff. I don’t even remember ever meeting him, so I doubt he has any reason he’d want to come back, including retrieving this. Just thought I’d sell it because it seems like someone else could get use out of it.” Tartah shook his head as the attendant glided his hands over the worn two strings. “I don’t– I don’t know if it can be fixed or played; I suppose you’d know that, right?”
The man sighed through his nose and gently put it back in the case. He drummed his hand on the outside of the case in thought, then shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, coming into a music shop not even knowing what you have leads to only two conclusions: you are going to get ripped off–” The guy raised a hand, using two fingers to show the options available– “or on the off chance you will find someone with integrity. Honestly, part of what’s holding me back from scamming you a little is that if I ended up with this, the owner would be pissed. We probably couldn’t afford to buy it off you, and he’d know that.”
The casual admission was a bit jarring, but Tartah just threw a hand out, gesturing to the case. “I don’t care if I get a hundred dollars: just as long as it makes up for the travel to get here. Really, I don’t care.”
“You want a hundred?” The guy scoffed, nose wrinkled as if the thought disgusted him. “Assuming the neck is good, nothing's shot and it’s not hiding another catastrophic problem, try thousands.”
Tartah’s mouth hung open. “W-What?”
“Yeah, man. People collect these.” Tartah looked down at the case as though seeing it for the first time. It hadn't changed at all since he battled through the cobwebs to grab it from the mass of boxes that hadn’t been touched in over a decade: same black exterior with worn edges, same tarnished brass latches, same mothball smell that didn’t transfer to the inside of the case. All at once, it hit him: Huh. My dad was a fucking idiot too.
Tartah gestured to the instrument. “That asshole paid thousands of dollars for this and nothing in child support?”
The attendant shushed him quickly. “Dude, there’s kids here taking a lesson,” He hissed through his teeth, though he didn’t sound irritated. He hesitated a moment as if expecting the police to appear around the corner for indecent language around minors who were currently not in ear shot, then relaxed. Despite it all, Tartah’s mouth twitched despite himself at the man’s frets. “For what it’s worth, it probably wasn’t worth thousands when he bought it. Vintage is really in right now. The value has been climbing over the years, but within the last five? Jeez.”
Tartah glanced back at the case, his shoulders relaxing only a fraction. Then he jumped as the man shut lid and flicked the latches with a decisive click.
"Look." He slid the case back across the counter. "I'll restring it free of charge."
Tartah blinked. "...Really? I’m… I’m just going to take it to the next music store I find; you do know that, right?"
"Yeah." Custas shrugged as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. It looked entirely too reluctant for the casual, eased way he had been trying to assert himself the last several minutes. "Here’s the plan: we'll plug it in, test everything together, listen for any issues, and figure out what kind of shape it's actually in, and then you can figure out what you want to do with it.”
Tartah looked down at the case for a long moment. "... Alright."
With a moment of hesitation, the attendant offered a hand over the counter. "I'm Custas."
He reached across to take the hand. “Tartah.”
"Nice to meet you." Custas released his hand and hooked a thumb toward the staircase he descended from earlier. He grinned. “My stuff’s upstairs. Mind carrying that up for me?”
Tartah followed Custas up the stairs– He debated going up first, but figured it’d be awkward to stand in an unfamiliar space while waiting for him to make his way up. Tailing after him wasn’t any better: Custas struggled a bit more with getting up the stairs than down, but he chatted casually the entire time, explaining the process of what he was going to do to his father’s relic even though Tartah understood none of it. He clearly was more passionate about music than he’d ever be. That’s fine. Good that he has a job that suits his interests.
When he reached the top, Custas began flicking lights on and turning on lamps. He must have been sitting in relative darkness up here– or at least too dim of a light for Tartah to discern much given his condition. He adjusted his glasses as Custas flopped down on a low couch by a long coffee table on the far left hand side of the loft space. “Bring her here!”
Tartah obeyed, opening the case after placing it down. Custas retrieved a small tacklebox from under the couch and selected a red tool. “Take a seat wherever.”
Tartah nodded politely. He glanced around the area and noticed there was another couch on the other side, a decently old and big TV, a series of three overcrowded and stuffed filing cabinets, a desk with a backpack on top, a few band posters on the wall… and a cot with a blanket? He glanced back to see Custas already at work unwinding the pegs at the top of the bass, unbothered as Tartah cleared his throat and sat down on the couch opposite of him. He watched, hands tapping anxiously on his knees.
“So, you live here?”
“Yeah.” He began cranking a string loose. “I prefer working up here ‘cause the couch is comfy. Hope you don’t mind.”
Tartah gave a small nod before falling silent again. With nothing else to do beyond pulling up his phone to swipe mindlessly on, which could be perceived as rude since he technically is getting a free service, he sat and watched Custas’ hands as they shifted around, moving with precision about their task. It was quick without the sensation of rushing, and he looked at ease despite the stranger in his personal space. Well, if he lived upstairs where any customer could wander in or where he could be awakened at any time the shop was opened, Tartah guessed he had to be used to it.
He couldn’t imagine living like that. On occasion, he felt crammed living with his grandpa above his shop, but that was entirely different from actually living in the shop air. Tartah’s door blocked out all the noise that fettered in from the kitchen, let alone the floor below them.
He wouldn’t comment on that though. Not like he’s the one to talk about typical family dynamics and home situations. In fact, he almost felt himself easing into the couch further. This wasn’t so bad. Custas was nice. The place was quiet, and Tartah just had to sit here for a while and watch a master at work, a master who was roughly this age and already so skilled at something incredible. Tartah’s hands balled as he cleared his throat.
“You are really good at that.”
Custas glanced up through his unruly, dark bangs, then laughed. “Yeah, I’d hope so. I do it every week. It’s one of the services we provide here. You have to replace your strings every 3 to 6 months to keep the sound going strong, but lots of people hate tuning their instruments. Easier to just cough up 40$ than to deal with the hassle and still end up bringing it in.”
Custas guided an old string free and reached for a replacement. He worked, lining it up, bending the wire, then cutting it without measuring twice. It settled nicely when he hooked it in. “What do you do?”
Tartah’s eyes flicked back up to Custas’ face, but the boy wasn’t looking at him. “What do I do?”
“Like, what’s your hobby? You can’t do nothing all day.”
Tartah blinked, thinking before he shook his head dismissively. “I don’t think I really have anything like that.”
"Bull."
Tartah smiled despite himself. "I'm serious."
Custas pointed toward him with the red tool. “Okay, what about your hands?”
Tartah instinctively looked down, examining them. “Um…?”
“I figured you hunt or something with all those scars,” Custas replied bluntly and Tartah frowned, curling his fingers around the ends of his shirt.
"I whittle."
Custas paused. "...Whittle?"
"Like with a knife and wood." Tartah rubbed the back of one hand absentmindedly. "I carve little things sometimes. Just for fun, I guess."
"What kind of things?"
"Whatever comes to mind." Tartah pursed his lips in thought as Custas finished attaching the new strings and began to tighten them again. "I mostly do it when I'm anxious or when I have too much energy and don't know what to do with it. I don’t know if I’d call that a hobby. I guess it’s more of a side gig. My grandpa has a shelf in his shop for them, so–"
He’s just rambling now. He decided to shut up around then because, yeah, there’s no way to make whittling sound cool and he wasn’t going to act like he didn’t knick his fingers a fair amount when he was flustered or frustrated, just needing something to do without paying that close of attention to how he’s angling his knife.
“That’s cool.” Tartah stared incredulously at his companion as Custas continued, “Making something tangible is… I don’t know. Making music is one thing, but making something someone can carry with them forever is different, you know?”
He’d probably not say that if he saw the carvings Tartah did. They weren’t bad by any means, but it wasn’t something worth writing home about. They mostly served as knickknacks. On occasion, he makes handles for fishing poles for a man down the street who designs his poles, or even some incense burners for the younger crowd, or whistles if he’s feeling confident and bold. Needless to say, the majority of people who bought them were much older and were charmed by anything or children who wanted a carving of a dog.
“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” Tartah argued quietly. He pinched at the fabric on the knee of his pants. “I mean, a good song can live in your heart forever, right?”
Custas' hands stopped. Not for long—only a second—but long enough that it was a stark change from the fast-paced workings of his fingers moments before. Custas glanced up, seeming to stare off into the nothingness on the wall in front of him, then suddenly, his lips parted and a wide smile spread across his lips. He shoulders jumped with a laugh. “Pfft! ‘Live in your heart’? That’s so lame!”
Heat rushed into Tartah's face. “Y-You know what I meant! So don't make fun of me; I just–"
"Oh, I'm absolutely making fun of you,” Custas snickered, throwing him a wink as Tartah buried his face in his hands. When he managed the courage to look back up, Custas had set the string winder back into the tackle box before carefully lifting the bass from his lap to examine it. “Still, I get it, even with your cheesy wording. Songs just… help people. I don’t know.”
Custas’ dark eyes wandered to Tartah, then focused back on the instrument upon meeting his gaze. “... Anyways, she’s ready. Let’s see this baby go.”
Custas pushed himself to his feet with the bass in hand, but the immediate first step after made him falter. A sharp wince crossed his face before he caught himself, shifting his weight awkwardly onto his other leg which visibly strained to lean heavily on the coffee table in front of him.
Without thinking, Tartah was already standing, his hands reaching for it. "I've got it."
Before Custas could object, Tartah had gently taken the bass from his hands, but Custas didn’t pause for long. “Keep holding it like that. Don’t— Don’t change your grip, okay? If she’s not warped already, let’s keep it that way.”
Tartah raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
Custas hesitated for only a moment before he released it, letting it solely fall into his hands. "...Thanks."
He rubbed absently at his thigh as if working out a stubborn ache, then straightened, snatching his cane. He nodded toward the stairs. “C’mon. Let’s see if a good-for-nothing at least took care of one thing.”
Tartah grinned. “Yep.”
There music practice rooms were back downstairs, and Tartah eyed the seating options on the first floor as they walked around to see there was really only harsh stools and uncushioned chairs– he couldn’t blame Custas for not finding these choices desirable and preferring to make the extra journey to relax easier. Plus, he described as he walked down the stairs, usually the owner would bring him the instruments to fix while he was doing his homework so he didn’t need to do a whole back and forth. Tartah supposed that anyone who knew about how the shop worked, someone who comes in every few months for new strings, would know about this and be accepting of parting from their instrument for a while.
Past where he entered, Custas led him further into the back where not only more cases and genuinely nicely set up products lived, but where there were soundproof(?) music rooms. The first one had a window with a light on, and Tartah couldn’t help but look inside as they passed. There was a man inside sitting on a bench with what looked like a ukelele. Two kids sat crisscross on the floor, saying someone as they strummed along haphazardly. As if sensing his presence, the man glanced up and immediately locked eyes with him as he passed. He felt a shiver run through his as he stared at the man’s black eyes and gaunt, scruffy cheeks.
“That’s Dagda; he does a lot of the lessons here.” Custas pushed open the furthest door and flicked on the lights. Just like the space upstairs, Tartah was beginning to piece together that this was likely Custas’ space as well. Unlike the first room, this had a lot of machinery and electronic speaker-like equipment… Honestly, Tartah didn’t know what to make of it. He was in over his head immediately, simply trusting this stranger; however, he also was the same stranger to be honest and upfront with him, not wanting to just take advantage of a silver platter offered up to him. “I’m not approved to do lessons yet by him, but I cover for him here and there when he’s gotta run and tune some piano. That’s where the real money comes in: don’t ever get a piano. Keyboard? Go for it. Piano? No go.”
“I never thought about having to tune a piano,” Tartah commented as he set the case down on top of some equipment Custas patted. “Isn’t it just keys? How do you tune a key?”
“Inside connected to the key is a series of strings. The average one has 230.”
“Shit,” Tartah hummed, then paled. “... Sorry.”
“They can’t hear us from here.” Custas unlatched the case and fetched out the instrument, then waddled awkwardly with his hands full to an actually cushioned seat, then began messing with wires. “Depending on how loud we get, the padding in the room deafens most of the sound. Between the two rooms, it’s no joke how quiet you get to each other.”
“So they can separate the sounds and hear their playing better?” Tartah asked, feeling as though it might have been an obvious answer, but given the type of laugh Custas answered with, he supposed it wasn’t the worst addition to the conversation.
Custas leaned his back down awkwardly beside a squat speaker within arm’s reach, one hand braced on his seat until he could lean against the wall instead. A cable snaking across the floor that was in the speaker was his actual goal, and he plugged one end into the bass. "Nah, you'd also be amazed how many twelve-year-olds decide today's the day they're going to learn heavy metal. This saves many people’s eardrums from bleeding."
"I imagine that's… fun.”
Custas snorted. "You're nicer than I am."
I honestly don’t think that. Tartah thought, then stood up straighter at the stark, abrupt thought. He glanced away with a muted shrug. Custas flicked a few switches around until a electric buzz lifted into the air like TV static. With that and a final nod, Custas rested the bass against him, twisting one of the knobs. He lifted his hand then, but paused before playing any string. His brow furrowed.
“... Is it broken?” Tartah asked, and Custas sighed, shaking his head. His hand reached up to his hair and he ruffled it as though puzzled, then sent a sheepish grin up to Tartah.
“... I usually have Dagda here to help me because it’s actually really hard to assess the health of the instrument if you are the one playing it. Would you mind?”
Tartah stammered, “Oh, I thought I made it clear earlier: I have no idea how that thing works.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Custas brushed past, clearly unopposed to his decision. He held the instrument out, tilting his head encouragingly. “I’m not expecting you to be a secret Mozart. Just pluck a little for me and fiddle with it. Promise, it’ll be easy.”
Without his help, the bass was ushered into his hands, and Custas fidgetted with his fingers to rest appropriately on the piece. When he was satisfied, he said, “Okay. Start with any string you want; don’t worry about getting fancy with it.”
Any string? What about the length of strings? Tartah is just supposed to strum the middle, right? What if he does it wrong or too harshly and it snaps and Custas gets upset? If it’s worth thousands, shouldn’t it be handled by a professional instead? Sighing beneath his breath, Tartah soothed his nerves with one thought. This is almost over.
With that, he took the first string with his finger and flicked it.
The sound was immediate and smoother than he anticipated. The vibration echoed from his fingers in a surprised jitter and found its way into his ribcage like the sensation of petting a rumbling cat. The note lingered, remaining just as deep and warm until it faded.
“Right?” Custas said as though responding to something he said, but Tartah didn’t recall making a single noise. “Okay, one at a time with the rest, then just do whatever. Try them all at once or something.”
“... Okay.” Tartah tested the next string, and this one was deeper, richer. This thing has four strings, how can it sound cool? The next two held that same frequency of… Well, he doesn’t really know if frequency is the right word, but it sounded good, even if he was just testing the strings once. Not like a song, but like the instrument was itching to create one anyways. Finally, a little flustered, Tartah awkwardly ran his fingers through each string at once. Holy shit.
Custas bobbed his head with each note, eyes closed as he processed the noise. When it pittered out, he leaned his head back with a smile, staring up at the ceiling. “... Yeah, she’s in real good shape.”
Tartah let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "So... that's good? I mean, there’s, like, no hurdles to jump through in selling it or whatever?"
"Yeah, yeah." Custas nodded toward the bass, hand waving his statement away like the lazy paw of a cat. "This thing's in way better condition than I expected."
Tartah looked down at the instrument in his hands. "...Huh. Cool, I guess."
"Keep going."
His head shot up. "What?"
"Just mess around; have fun. I want to hear more of it.”
Tartah blinked, then sent him a confused look. "I don't know what else to do. I don’t know how to play.”
"There's no wrong answer for this.”
Tartah shook his head, smiling despite himself as he glided his hand over the strings without striking them. "I really can't do anything else. Maybe we can wait for Dagda to finish with his lessons. It’d be nice to hear what it can really do in proper hands.”
He shifted as though to hand the bass back, but Custas stood abruptly, one hand on the wall to keep him steady. “Alright. C’mere: I’ll show you.”
Before Tartah had the chance to protest, Custas stepped around the side of his seat, using his cane briefly to carry himself over to Tartah in spite of his order. Within a moment, Custas was peering over his shoulder. “Hold still for me, K?”
Custas reached around him, one hand gently resting over Tartah's left where it gripped the neck. A cool breath fell on his neck and Tartah’s hair stood on end, his cheeks warming as he stood ramrod straight. Custas tapped his pointer finger with his own. Then, with the soft clatter of his cane, Custas reached around his other side, his arms encompassing him. His darker hand rested over Tartah’s in the middle of the instrument, then curled his fingers on top of his own. He tapped two more times.
“These two, and this up here–” He pressed on Tartah’s fingers, then adjusted them. “And then play this.”
Tartah's face warmed despite himself as he felt Custas’ chin graze his shoulder; worst yet, Custas appeared utterly indifferent or oblivious to how close he brought himself into Tartah’s space, solely focused on the instrument as he made tiny corrections and adjustments. Well, this man hardly had space to himself. What’s a far cry from never knowing personal space at all?
"Try it now like I showed you,” Custas said as he drew his hands back, but he remained hovering over his shoulder, staring down expectantly. Tartah swallowed and did exactly as instructed– or how he remembered being instructed. Custas was distracting like this. Taking in a deep breath, he eased himself and began to play the first cord he was shown.
The note that answered was different. His eyebrows lifted, momentarily taken back by how holding the cord down and playing two notes at once just sounded… Custas chuckled and Tartah jumped, pouting in annoyance over his shoulder. “What? Did I do it wrong?”
“No, just go to the next one before the sound fades out.” Tartah obeyed, furrowing his brow as he recalled the actions. As they were given, the notes flowed together in a way they hadn't before when he individually let them ring out. He hadn't really done anything in his mind—his fingers had barely moved from the standard start position—but somehow the bass sounded fuller, like it was swelling in the room and rattling him once more. It felt powerful.
"There you go." Custas finally stepped back, looking quietly pleased with himself. Custas hobbled a few steps toward one of the large speakers in the corner and leaned against it until he was able to descend to a sit, folding his arms with a satisfied sigh.
Tartah hovered anxiously, his fingers curling a little around the strings as Custas hummed, "You know… that thing used to be your dad’s, but he never bothered with it, right?”
Tartah shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know if he even knew how to play or if he got it at a garage sale. I don’t really care either way.”
Custas nodded slowly. “In that case, maybe, you don’t have to think about it as his thing?” He gestured toward the bass. “I mean, it’s yours now, and it’s not like he matters to you anyways, so you don’t have to keep thinking about it as something your dad left behind. I think the second your grandpa gave you permission to go through his stuff, it became your bass and your responsibility. So you should let it be yours.”
Tartah's fingers absently brushed across the strings. He smiled a little. “... It’d be wasted on me. I don’t know anything about music. Someone else would appreciate it more.”
"You've been holding it for two minutes and you're already smiling more than when you walked in looking like some Grumpy Pants." Tartah immediately schooled his expression, and Custas just grinned, “It’s okay. We all have bad days, but don’t let this one and whatever’s got you down stop you from something good. I think you’d love the bass– if you knew how to play it.”
“Which I don’t,” Tartah added unhelpfully.
“Then I’ll teach you.”
Tartah’s stomach churned. "...Teach me? … Why would you do that?"
Custas rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a touch embarrassed as he murmured, “I dunno. Music has done a lot for me, and it makes me happy. If you end up liking it half as much as I do, it’s worth a few afternoons working on, right?”
Oh. Tartah’s chest burned. He licked his lips, quickly putting the bass in the case now that his hands were growing sweaty. He rubbed them self-consciously on his jeans, trying to be subtle as he unplugged the cord and latched the case back up. “That’s very generous of you–”
"Oh—and you'd pay me."
Tartah's shoulders relaxed. “Ah, I don’t think I can really afford lessons here, and I don’t want to trouble my grandpa, so…”
Even if he sold the bass for what Custas claimed it was worth, thousands of dollars still felt like an otherworldly amount, and not something he could justify spending on himself. Not that he’d use the money to learn the bass when he no longer owned one.
Custas just gave him a goofy grin and pointed directly at Tartah's jacket. “I mean, you belong to that fancy art university, right?”
Tartah looked down at the embroidered crest stitched over the breast pocket. “Oh. No, no, this is–”
“My band is currently looking for an artist to help design our album art and logos and whatever else we end up needing. We don’t have much going on yet, BUT–” He jabbed a finger toward Tartah– “You can make us stuff in return. That seems like a fair trade.”
Fuck no I can’t– "I appreciate your offer, really–”
"It’s done!” Custas made his way to the case and took it before Tartah could snag it back. “I’m keeping this here so you don’t turn your back and sell it to some smuck, and then you come back next week for your first lesson. Got it?”
"I didn't agree to—"
"We'll start with the basics…”
"Custas."
"And in the meantime, I'll have this cleaned up, polished, and ready to go. It’ll look like a whole new beast with some TLC."
"Custas."
"We'll probably get through your first scale– You’ve got good movement with your fingers. Maybe look up some videos to help you get an idea of–”
Tartah seethed out through a hiss in his teeth, "Custas!"
"Hm?" Custas smiled so brightly it was impossible to keep that annoyance held, and Tarth immediately found himself caving to that bright-eyed expression. Tartah stood there for a long moment, looking between Custas, the bass case, and the impossible certainty that he’d end up walking another two miles to get here next week unless his dad magically stowed a fully-functioning bike in the attic as well.
“... I guess I can give it a try.”
With that said and done, Custas followed him toward the door, but stopped just as they reached the monumental shelves of cases. He gave a wave with the hand not steadying himself with his cane, then called after, “I’ll see you around this time next week, okay? Don’t keep me waiting– I’ll figure out how to track you down!”
Tartah didn’t doubt that for a second. Throwing one last wincing smile over his shoulder, he pushed out the door and back into the bright daylight. It shocked his system compared to the dim store, and he had to take a minute to adjust before beginning to make his way down the street. Well. At least he had one less thing to worry about: carrying it home. There was more on his to-do list now though, but that could all wait until his last mission was complete.
He fetched out that worn down, creased up paper and unfurled it once again. He played the conversation he imagined the last two miles in his mind. In a few hours, he’d sit across from his grandpa at the dining table, splitting their plates evenly as grandpa asked him about his day, if he received any news yet. Tartah would change before then, throw this damned jacket in the bin or in one of the donation bags he was making with the rest of his dad’s stuff. And Tartah would have to muster out either the words or the strength to reveal the truth while acting like everything was fine.
He stared down at the paper, eyes burning as he read.
Dear Mr. Tartah Nolnoa,
The Admissions Committee has carefully reviewed your application and entrance exam for the University of Magnostadt. After much consideration, I regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place in our first year class.