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Tristan T. Travers (alliterative) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

Although Tristan liked Quidditch well enough, he wasn't as sure he liked crowds. However, he was trying to ease into crowds where he didn't have the barrier of a bar separating himself from other people, and he thought listening to one of the weekly Quidditch matches might be a good place to start. Everyone would be more into the game than into the people around the pub listening to the match, and it'd give him some good experience being a passive member of a crowd.

It was, in his estimation, a decent plan, and he thought, if he made it through unscathed, his therapist might find it to be proper progress. She didn't seem to think sitting around and not talking at a support group was progress, and, while he agreed on some level, the thought that he could be in the same room under such pretenses was progress enough on that front. He knew logically he had every right to be there, and no one had explicitly asked him to leave and never come back. But just because he knew he had a right to be there, too, didn't mean he felt comfortable. And that was part of what today was about. If he could be comfortable in a casual setting where no one would talk to him, then he could hopefully ease into being comfortable in other situations with other people.

Tristan had arrived early to scope out a table, selecting one that allowed him to see the entire room and the exit while also making sure his back wasn't to any other table. Maybe it was a little extreme, a little paranoid, but it allowed him to feel less anxious as he idly snacked on a basket of chips.

Quietly, he watched the den of the pub fill up, and he concentrated on his breathing to quell any nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't a cure-all to that anxious feeling, but it seemed to help a bit. It allowed him make random notes about some of the people around him, including someone he thought was familiar. He quietly and subtly studied the man, trying to figure out if he knew him. He memory was good enough that he knew he'd know, and, after a few minutes, he thought he might. He'd seen him around Diagon Alley and Monument Alley. Nothing special or particularly memorable, but he'd also seen him at school. And he'd been invited to his birthday party.

Tristan licked his lips, looking down at his chips, wondering if he should say hello or leave him alone. Although he had the tendency to be talkative in the right situation, that didn't mean he'd ever been the most social even before the war. Even so, it'd nagged him not knowing for sure if Gregory Goyle had gotten his thank you for the cream puffs last month. It wasn't like he needed to have a conversation with the other man. He just hadn't known if his owl had been received. And it wouldn't hurt to reiterate his thanks, especially since he'd replied to the birthday invitation saying he'd attend the party.

Another few moments found Tristan putting a few things on the table to make sure he noted it was taken before standing up. He straightened his black robes out, brushed his hair behind his ears, and approached the other man. He kept a polite distance, making sure to allow for personal space while also being close enough to signify he was clearly there to speak with him.

He cleared his throat a little and said, "Hi. I'm Tristan. I won't bother you for long. Last month, you sent me a couple of cream puffs. Just wanted to say thank you for them so thank you." He smiled, then took a step back, subconsciously preparing himself to return to his table.