Truths told, wounds bled Characters: Faelan, Harry Summary: Harry and Faelan have things that need discussing.
Faelan's charcoal pencil sketched idle markings across a page already covered with abstract thoughts turned to non-art. As was his usual monthly habit, he'd already discarded page after page of messy scrawl, and he knew he wouldn't produce anything recognizable or worth keeping until the moon was waning again. But this routine had once kept him focused, and even though the Wolfsbane performed that task now, old habits died hard.
He sat on the steps of Haven's Loft with his back to the porch railing, and let his sketchbook drop limply to his lap. The sun was starting to set, but it was only a distant part of him that thought about the paints in his room. His mind always took him down strange, sometimes untraceable, paths during this time, but even more than usual, he felt dark and lost inside.
He'd seen his brother. And Oliver was, as he'd always remembered him, perfect. Tall and lean and gorgeous, and full of the same sort of determined pride that had won him Quidditch matches since adolesence, and had once made Faelan feel so protected and included, like he was a part of something special, held tightly behind some shield that no one could touch. But years ago that all had changed, and with it, his memories of a brother who had once pledged to love him and keep him safe forever had dissolved into the pain of betrayal and lies.
As if he had thought it possible to actually hurt more right now, the run-in with his brother had done nothing but return Faelan to the eleven-year-old he'd been, who felt nothing but rejected and different -- from his family, from his brother, from everyone. In the past year, the only thing that had made him feel even remotely normal was the daring notion that he actually had something that almost resembled a pack of loved ones again. Sirius had made him feel normal. Sirius had talked to him while the moon grew fatter, had quietly learned when to stay close and when to keep his distance, when to feed Faelan more or less, when to squeeze his shoulder or pat his hand or let him sleep late without running through the house like an elephant on all fours. Sirius had picked him up and gave him potions and stopped him bleeding and kept him warm, and stayed with him, and took him home, and loved him.
He thought -- no, he knew -- Sirius had loved him, but it really didn't help ease the pain of being left. And when he had to see his brother's face, and be reminded of what it felt like to be so alone, he'd been blown away by how much it all still hurt.
He held his head in his hands and tried not to think. He tried not to see Oliver's face, tried not to believe it was pain in his brother's eyes when the man had turned away, tried to convince himself he was right to ask him to go, that nothing good could come of their reunion, when Oliver had so obviously not wanted Faelan in his life the first time, and when Oliver had so clearly made up a bunch of lies in his own mind to justify the actions of himself and their parents.
Despite the pain, despite the loss of Sirius and the further losses that were sure to follow, Faelan was not so stupid that he didn't realize how much better off he was in life now than he ever could have hoped of being before. He had enough. He had more than he'd ever prayed for or deserved, so the thought of adding back in a brother who did not actually want to hurt him was so far beyond comprehension that it never even crossed his mind.