Faelan had arrived at the pub earlier than anyone knew. Harry hadn't even been there yet, but the place was already shut down, and Faelan had intended to drink himself halfway to oblivion before the memorial got underway. But he'd made the mistake of looking at the stage, remembering how alive Sirius had looked there, and began wondering if Sirius had known, even then as he'd sat with him and Harry and Gaius acting like they were a family, that he'd be leaving them.
The thought had made his throat sting with swallowed bitterness, and he knew he couldn't be there yet, firewhiskey or no. It was too quiet, but the idea of a crowd filling in filled him with equal dread. Like everywhere lately, he felt displaced, like he wanted to be someplace else, only to go there and want to go back again.
But he couldn't go back, and he didn't know how to go forward. He felt stuck, frozen inside and out. He couldn't think, couldn't sit still, couldn't draw or paint or talk. Couldn't be here.
He had cleared his throat, clenched his hands and went up to the bar, asking for a room. He knew Harry had rented the whole place and he needed to be alone for a while. But once he got the private, small seclusion he craved, he couldn't breathe. After pacing for a while, running his hand through his hair over and over again, he decided he had to go downstairs. Harry had to be here by now, and things would be getting started, and if he didn't show up he'd look like an ungrateful brat.
So, he left the room, walked downstairs, and slid into a corner booth. He didn't order a drink; he didn't think he could stomach it. He did look around, however, and saw Harry and Gaius, Regulus, Remus, and others. He didn't see Padma. His stomach twisted with both emptiness and relief. He couldn't have expected her to come, as he hadn't invited her - hadn't even seen her or talked to her - but part of him had expected her to come of her own volition, or at Harry's invitation.
Meanwhile, Harry was making the rounds. Faelan watched him talk to each guest with stoic composure, and wondered what was going on beneath the surface. Harry always seemed so solid, but he knew there had to be something brewing inside that the man just wasn't expressing, at least not to him. He had a feeling Harry probably needed a good venting, but how to provide a listening ear was not something Faelan was good at, and he couldn't help but think that he didn't even have a right to want to. Harry's grief - Gaius', everyone's - had to be so much deeper than his own that it seemed meaningless to offer understanding when he knew the stinging pain he felt could be nothing compared to the anguish the others had earned.
So, Faelan sat in the corner, idly fingering the corner of a menu and staring at the table.