At first he just decides Mordred is late. He goes to the door every five minutes and looks out for him, and nothing (he tries not to feel disappointed. Mordred's presence is a gift, but an undeserved one) (and he'll be along soon enough). After an hour, though, a sick feeling begins to coil in his stomach.
Mordred has never been late. He's never missed a day. It's been at least two weeks. Theophilus threads around his ankles, mewing, as if he can tell how anxious Galahad is. He'd half-undressed, as he always does when he gets home from work, but now he goes to his room and pulls on a shirt and coat. If something is wrong--
If nothing is wrong, Mordred will be irritated. He'll be closed-off, uncomfortable and sharp-tongued, as he always is when Galahad lets slip that he's important (he is important. He isn't Percy, he's not a replacement for Percy or Heli, but he's become close to Galahad's heart in the same way they were. Someone to be trusted, someone who protects him from his own despair, someone who is kind and gentle without always being kind or gentle) (that realisation sits in his chest like a hot coal, smoldering). For a moment he falters.
Then he thinks of Mordred's cut lip, of what he guessed the second night.
He pulls on his boots and keys the door shut behind him; it takes all his willpower not to run. Even so he walks briskly until he reaches the bar where he first discovered Mordred. If nothing else, someone there might recognise his name and know where to find him. He takes a breath and goes in.