Faelan's breath came increasingly quickly the more and more he let himself re-read the letter. On the fourth or fifth time, he let it fall beside him on the bed and shielded his eyes with one hand, squeezing his temples in an attempt to not let his feelings overwhelm him. Oliver was sorry too. Oliver wanted him to be happy, didn't want to stay away, wanted to see him.
His brother wanted to see him.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and laid unmoving until Edward landed softly beside him and gave a quiet hoot. Faelan looked to see the owl regarding him with a tilted head. The bird leaned in and Faelan met him halfway, nuzzling his cheek against the owl's soft head.
"Thanks, Edward."
It was such a small thing, this tiny folded up letter, but the relief it brought to Faelan made him realize he'd been feeling more stress than he even knew. Between Padma, Harry, Neville, and Gaius, Faelan was becoming rather well-accustomed to the new and strange feeling of worrying about others. He worried about all of them, felt surrounded and consumed by danger, by grief, by illness. Sometimes he even found himself worrying about Sirius in the afterlife. And, though he tried not to admit it to himself, he worried about Oliver too. He worried that his brother really meant him no harm, really hadn't ever meant to hurt him, and that he, Faelan, had been the one to do the hurting.
That was more difficult to think about than any of the other stuff. But maybe now he could make it right.
Pulling out his wand, Faelan summoned a quill and fresh parchment from his desk (the quill only wobbled a little bit under his inexpert spell) and he penned a response. He kept it short, for fear that he would begin rambling and leave nothing to say for when he saw his brother in person.
Dear Oliver,
Can you come to the pub at five tomorrow? I'm sure Harry can arrange it.