Drained

by Licht_1900

Summary:

They've won, they're done. So why does it feel like they're not?
The emotional aftermath of things Falcio, Kest & Brasti went through.

Set at no particular time, very general and neutral circumstances, without giving any details.

Notes:

Please note: This piece can be read in any way possible when it comes to the relationship between these three, hence the number of tags in the "relationships" and "categories" sections. Don't like, don't read.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⚔️☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

I bought the first book of the Greatcoats series a few years back, but I only read it a few days ago. By now I am halfway through the third book. I'm absolutely in love with this series and I have way too many HCs & way too strong need to give the main trio the biggest hug possible. I just need them to have one honest and eventually peaceful night. I know Greatcoats aren't that popular but I couldn't care less.

That said, if you happen to read this piece, hope you'll enjoy it!

Chapter 1: Brasti & Kest

So what if it is indeed a time or celebration? So what that most of the people involved at any point in this entire mess are downstairs right now, relaxing, having fun? So what his exile has come to an end, surprisingly without him dying?

Falcio’s tired. Unable to enjoy the fight-free time he’s got at his disposal. Incapable of shutting his brain up, of stopping overthinking everything. Planning and strategizing are activities close to an instinct for him by now. 

Somehow (and all the Gods and Saints forbid you from asking just how), he forces himself to get up from his bed and direct his steps towards the opposite wing of the palace he currently occupying with his friends. He knows he should join in, instead of staying here, sulking, alone. 

Walking slowly toward the staircase, he can’t help but stay near the doorways while passing them. As selfish as that sounds, there is a hope, hidden somewhere deep within him, that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one struggling. 

Soon enough he realises, for once, his hunch might actually be right. The door to Brasti’s room is slightly opened. The chamber seems silent but when you spend as much time with a person as he himself managed to do with both Kest and Brasti, you know better. You tend to notice things, unnoticeable by other people. 

The First Cantor stands directly in front of the entrance, not sure whether to announce himself or not. Maybe he should leave the archer alone? He still hasn’t fully recovered from Brasti’s verbal attack on him in Carefal. Ever since they’ve seen the horror of all these innocent people and witnessed the archer’s outburst that day, every now and then the First Cantor felt uneasy while talking to his friend. Every time it would also dawn on him that he was being unreasonable.

Fortunately, it seems that the decision about walking in isn’t his to make.

“Falcio?” a small voice reaches his ears, and he immediately knows something is wrong. 

He swallows around the lump growing in his throat and pushes the door all the way, revealing a heartbreaking scene. His archer is sitting on his bed, cross-legged, his hands shaking in his lap, his eyes close to overflowing with unshed tears. 

Brasti sighs softly as his eyes finally settle on the other man. “Hey,” his tone is fragile, matching perfectly with his general look of misery. Still, he tries to bestow the latter with one of his trademarked smirks. Immediately, he fails.

“Brasti…” If Falcio had any doubts previously, now he can feel them all bleeding out and disappearing. The archer might have had this kind of hysteric, aggressive breakdown back at the village, and he might have taken all of his emotion at Falcio, even though they both knew none of this was the First Cantor’s fault. But Brasti’s still his best friend, goddammit. He cares about him more than he cares about his life. “What happened? Are you alright?” his brain doesn’t even fully comprehend how fast he starts moving.

The next thing he knows, he’s kneeling by the archer, his hands on the latter’s knees, leaning for support, as he tries to take in the entire situation.

The first thing he notices only now when the distance between the two is almost nonexistent is the blood on the other man’s knuckles. A clear sign the archer has taken it out on the walls this time. 

To confirm his hypothesis, Falcio quickly looks around, scanning the room. Sure enough, he quickly spots a massacred wallpaper on the side of the chamber.

His palm gently reaches to get a grip of Brasti’s hand. Upon feeling no resistance, nor objection, his grasp tightens, as he draws the limb closer to himself, in order to examine it. 

“Brasti, what happened?” he repeats, his voice becoming even softer if possible. 

His friend stares at him for a good while, almost like he’s trying to make a hole in between Falcio’s eyes. Eventually, though, he seems to gather all the courage he has left and reply. 

“I can’t go down there,” As if this one sentence could explain anything, that is all he says before his feelings take better of him. He begins to crumble down, trembling like a leaf. 

The First Cantor can almost hear the crash. He gives up on the archer’s physical injuries. Instead, he gets up and after just one more second of consideration, sits down on the bed, directly next to Brasti, completely invading his personal space. Not that the archer minds in any way. Quite opposite actually - he finds himself clutching Falcio’s coat, leaning heavily into him as if all the strength in the world has left him at this very moment. Falcio, bless his heart, doesn’t comment, instead hugging him back with just as much force. 

It takes the red-haired man several minutes to calm down and throughout all that time, the First Cantor doesn’t let go of him. He patiently waits through the outburst, not rushing or judging the archer. 

Finally, the room falls silent. That is, until Brasti opens his mouth again, mumbling the excuse for his odd behaviour into Falcio’s coat. 

“I just don’t know how to relax. All I want to do is to stay here and sleep, just in case we need to leave early tomorrow and fight yet another army, protect yet another innocent child or worse, guard a duke.”

It’s hard to hear their social butterfly talk like this. Brasti was always the one most likely out of their trio to enjoy himself at every given opportunity, drink a lot, fuck a lot and pay no mind to whatever whoever around him says about his attitude to life. But now? He looks like a bird, which wings have been cut off. Locked in the cage, in the darkness. Alone.  

“I know we deserve a break, that we have every right to go downstairs and have fun with the others…” Brasti carries on, now fully on the roll. “But I just can’t bring myself to actually do that. I don’t want to let my guard down. I can’t let my guard down.”

Falcio couldn’t be more thankful for passing this cage when he did. For finding and unlocking it. Now, he just needs to lead the archer out of there, back into the light.

“I understand,” he whispers, hushing his friend’s frantic murmurs. “Brasti, I understand. I feel the same way. It’s alright.” He can’t help but move his hand upwards, drowning it into the archer’s long curls of red hair, massaging the latter’s scalp, hoping to calm him down.

“It’s not alright. We’ve won, we’re done. I know we’re done. So why—” his voice fails him, as another sob creeps into his throat. Instead of trying to speak again, he lets out a pained moan - the most exhausted sound Flacio’s ever heard from this man. 

“It will pass, I swear,” The First Cantor promises softy. 

“What if it won’t?”

“It will-”

“Falcio.” Brasti’s tone is begging. Not for any more empty promises but for an alternate solution. 

The Cantor sighs deeply, his own tiredness catching up with him now. He pulls away a bit, just enough to be able to look at the archer’s face. Despite himself, he smiles encouragingly. “If it doesn’t, you can always come to me,” he pauses, searching Brasti’s eyes, wanting to be sure his friend is, in fact, listening. “You can always talk to me or Kest. We’re here, we love you and we’re not leaving.”

Falcio observes as the archer’s eyes refill, his lower lip quivering. The First Cantor pushes Brasti back against himself, grip tight, this time not planning on letting go anytime soon. They stay like this for a long time, neither of them talking much, with the exception of Falcio dropping his gentle reassurances every now and then and Brasti’s sniffling, hopefully announcing the end of this nervous breakdown. 

---

Kest finds them later that night. 

He enters the room quietly, trying his best not to wake his friends up. Reaching the feet of the bed, he just stands there, looking down, then closes his eyes and lets out a relieved breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He finds comfort in simply being there, with the two people he cares about the most. He knows he’ll get better if he just stays in the room for a while. 

He remains like this for a few more seconds, before opening his eyes again, forcing himself to get back to reality. He’s surprised when his look is met with a pair of dark, concerned irises. 

“You too, huh?” Falcio whispers, prompting himself up on his elbows, in order to sit up a bit. He gives Kest a reassuring smile, knowing just how hard it is for the swordsman to admit when he’s mentally in a bad place.

Kest nods; the movement is barely noticeable. Falcio observes as his best friend rounds the bed and sits on the floor, right next to him. The First Cantor reaches his hand to settle on the latter’s shoulder, seemingly nonchalantly. Both of them know it’s not, both of them realise it’s a sign that it’s safe not to be okay while in here.

The swordsman leans his head on the mattress, and for a mere moment, his eyes shift to Brasti’s slumped figure, sleeping deeply by the wall. Falcio, of course, notices the question in the quick look he gets. 

“He’s going to be alright now,” he answers Kest’s mute inquiry. 

Once again, the swordsman just nods, no words leaving his throat. In all honesty, he’s slightly worried he wouldn’t be able to speak if asked to. His voice feels too fragile and unsure in his chest. He knows he’s barely keeping himself together, and yet for some reason he feels like he has to. So he doesn’t give up, determined. 

“Are you also going to cry?” The First Cantor’s light-hearted joke interrupts his train of thought. He doesn’t risk even looking at the man, fearing the wall he’s worked on building around himself will break if he does. 

There’s a moment of silence during which Kest can feel the grip on his shoulder tighten. His shoulders tense in response. 

“Kest…” Falcio’s voice becomes much softer, now that he fully begins to understand the state his friend finds himself in. “You need to stop,” he prompts. The last part of the sentence, «burying it all inside» is silent. 

And despite himself, despite the unwavering conviction of having to be stronger than that, of needing to keep his emotions at bay and never let them see the daylight, Kest’s stoic attitude begins to suddenly crumble, right there and then. He leans forward, still desperate to remain silent - for whose sake, he doesn’t know. The first sob escapes his throat and the moment it does, he can feel himself being dragged up by his wrist, onto the bed, into his best friend’s arms.

“We really should add «crying time» to our schedules,” Falcio murmurs, a sad smile audible in his tone. “It would probably do us all much better than any success’ celebration we can think of.”

Kest lets out a small noise through his tears, and although it’s almost impossible to tell whether he’s still crying or laughing, the First Cantor decides to take it as a good sign. He runs his hand up and down the swordsman’s spine, hoping the gesture is being received as soothing. Falcio’s assumption gets somehow confirmed as his best friend continues to gradually relax beside him. 

Eventually, Kest’s cautious sobs subside and the man falls silent, the same way Brasti did earlier. The First Cantor doesn’t dare to speak as he simply enjoys the moment of the peace. He can still feel his own emotions building up deep within, his mind getting more and more clouded with each passing minute. 

It’s rather normal for him to sense the nervous breakdown approaching many days before it actually hits with its full force. For now, though, he tries not to think about it, forcing every particle of his brain to focus on his two best friends. 

At this point, he’s honestly not sure whether Kest managed to fall asleep on him or not. Either way, he decides to lay as still as possible, not wanting to disturb the blissful stillness of the room. 

The First Cantor can tell he’s slowly slipping into subconsciousness, and, for the first time in many, many months, he doesn’t stop himself from doing so. 

Everything is just so peaceful, safe, and silent…

Chapter 2: Falcio

Summary:

Brasti and Kest have their own, interesting way of comforting the person they care about the most.

Notes:

It’s probably relatively obvious but the bold parts written in cursive are Falcio’s thoughts.

Repeating the «I’m absolutely exhausted» phrase, over and over and over again might get, believe it or not, a bit boring after a while. Especially when no one is there to listen or even tell you off because all of that mess is happening within the depths of your own mind. Because your stubborn brain decides running a marathon is the best way of entertaining itself. 

Fuck. It. All.

He can’t even bring himself to smile back, upon seeing Aline or Valiana passing him in the corridor. Brasti’s jokes don't annoy him anymore. He couldn’t care less about training with Kest. The comments dropped by Dukes and Duchesses don’t make him angry. In fact, he barely even notices Duke Erris making unfavourable comments about King Paelis’ daughter taking over the throne. 

I just need a break. 

The days come and go as he grows wearier and wearier. Yet, of course, he pushes it all away, hoping the problem will just solve itself. Just like he does every time he feels this powerless.

Today he doesn’t even bother to get up from the bed. Even though he’s gotten more than enough sleep last night, he’s still absolutely exhausted. He realises it’s already late and his absence might raise a few eyebrows but, simply put, he doesn’t give a shit. He has no will to move, no will to think or talk or interact or—

“Falcio?”

No.

Maybe if he doesn’t answer, he’ll be left alone. Maybe whoever is behind that door will give up or think he’s absent. 

“Falcio, I know you’re in there.” 

There goes that plan. 

Slowly, as if pained by every movement of his body, he forces himself to sit up. Standing up comes next. He directs his steps toward the door, one at a time, dropping his feet on the floor in a careful manner. Analysing his body’s functioning with his already completely drained brain gives him the idea that he might actually end up tripping over nothing if he doesn’t pay attention to his actions. 

Finally, he reaches the entrance to his room and, still obviously weary of the person on the other side, unlocks it. The door opens before he has a chance to put his hand on the knob. Apparently, the latter had grown impatient and decided to push the wooden piece that let Falcio enjoy his isolation for the past hours, out of the way.

Why in the name of all the Gods and Saints still remaining, it has to be you out of all the people?

The young girl stands right in front of him, her regular determined facial expression present, just like any other day. However, as soon as her eyes land on the First Cantor, her gaze softens, almost to the point of sadness. Falcio feels a wave of guilt at the sight - he’d prefer she hasn’t seen him like this. 

“Falcio?” she repeats once more, her tone becoming much less confident than it was just a second ago. 

He wants to reassure her, tell her everything is alright and this - whatever it is - will pass soon. He’s had worse. Hell, he’s been injured, poisoned and tortured, probably in every single way that anyone has ever come up with. But he can’t force himself to do even this one, simple thing.

The First Cantor knows it’s bad when he can’t even see his Queen through the blur. 

Not that long ago, he was the strong one out of the two, protecting them both from the dangers of Rijou during that damn Ganath Kalila. But now…

He just shakes his head, answering her yet-to-be-asked question.

I’m not okay. 

Aline nods at him, slightly dilated pupils showing her growing concern. It’s rather obvious that she wants to say something, ask him whether he needs anything, hug him, whatever. And he appreciates her intentions, he really does - yet, right now, he can’t bring himself to receive any of it. He just can’t. 

The Queen reads as much from his gaze. She nods again, this time more jerkily as if doing it against her mind’s better judgement. Then, she turns around and walks away, leaving him alone in the doorway. 

Just the way everyone will eventually do. 

Falcio quickly closes the door, before letting himself slide down to the floor, his hands still on the rough wooden surface. He doesn’t want these thoughts in his head, he doesn’t want to go insane again. He’s not hallucinating yet but he feels like soon this may change. He doesn’t want anyone to hear, anyone to see him like this. 

Why can’t everything just stop?

The first sob is muffled by his palm, which quickly finds its way to cover his mouth. Trying hard not to make too much noise, he stumbles back towards the bed, from the lack of any better idea. 

He falls to the floor, right next to it. Not bothered to try getting up again. 

---

The First Cantor doesn’t know for how long he remains like this, desperately trying to keep himself from falling apart right then and there. He’s barely aware of his surroundings. 

What actually pinpoints his attention is the commotion. Air shifting around him. Some movements. He doesn’t try opening his eyes to see who’s in the room with him - the tears gathering under his eyelids will keep him from seeing anything clearly anyway.

He hears worried, almost scared voices. Two of them to be exact. Despite himself, he smiles sadly.

Aline must have gone to get Brasti and Kest. 

If anyone really has to see him like this, he prefers it to be these two. No matter how annoying Brasti may often appear and how stoic Kest seems to be, Falcio knows they care. He knows he doesn’t need to hide while with them, just like, to his shame, he often does with Aline and Valiana, not wanting to present himself as weak, needing them to feel safe in his presence. 

The incoherence of the voices slowly starts making sense to his ears, as he begins actually to understand the sentences being said. He still doesn’t give his friends much of a reaction or any explanation for that matter. But he clings to the words that he’s able to catch, hoping they’ll help him calm down. 

---

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” Brasti exclaims, and this time it’s slightly louder than the previous twelve curses he’s already managed to drop ever since they’ve entered the room. And yes, Kest’s keeping the count. 

“I don’t think your behaviour is helping the situation,” the swordsman points out as calmly as he can, although his voice still comes out somehow strained. His jaw clenches, as if to confirm what he’s actually feeling. 

Surprisingly enough, the archer seems to notice this small movement. He takes a few deep breaths himself and, after a few more seconds of consideration, joins Kest on the floor, kneeling right beside the First Cantor, yet not close enough for the man to feel trapped. He throws a sideway glance toward the swordsman, a clear question in his eyes.

Kest sighs softly and shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Falcio’s curled form. “I think things finally became too much for him to handle,” he voices his thoughts. He catches himself wanting to reach out to his best friend, initiating contact being the only familiar way to him to make one feel better. The man stops himself, though, not sure if the touch would be welcomed at the moment. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits after a while. 

To be truthful, neither of them has any clue as to what course of action they should possibly take. It’s not like they’ve never seen Falcio break down before - it shouldn’t come as that much of a revelation that it happened on more than one occasion. But this is just… different. There’s no movement, no reaction. No open crying, yelling or throwing insults. He’s zoned out, stiff, silent, almost as if…

Dead. 

Kest shakes his head more violently this time, forcing himself to focus on anything else that isn’t one of these dark concepts overpowering his mind. Fortunately for him, with Brasti around, there’s always some kind of a distraction.

Only now does the swordsman perceive the latter’s actions. He finds Brasti much closer to their First Cantor than he was the last time Kest paid any attention to him. The archer has an arrow in one of his hands, the sharp end turned toward Falcio, dangerously close to the man’s right forearm.  

“What, for the love of whichever-saint-is-still-alive, are you doing?” The sound of Kest’s tone, so full of utter disbelief, makes Brasti stop dead in his tracks, as he looks up to meet the swordsman’s glance.

“I was going to poke him,” the latter answers simply, trying to appear unbothered. 

Kest just stares at him, eyes wide. “With an arrow??” he exclaims, not sure what to do with the given information.

Brasti shrugs. It’s still very obvious he’s clearly nervous; the tension in his shoulders and a shadow behind his eyes say as much. But his choice of actions, the attitude, the way he talks… Kest realises he’s trying to mirror the way he usually acts - chaotically, unhinged. He gains comfort from being in control of at least this one small thing; his behaviour. He needs to have something familiar and knows Kest might need that too, even if he himself hasn't perceived that yet. 

The archer must notice some sign of understanding in his friend’s features because after a short while of silence, he begins to speak again, carrying on explaining his idea - just like he would any other time. Almost as if there was no First Cantor of the Greatcoats, having a mental breakdown on the floor right in front of them. Almost like all these past few days were just another regular part of one of their usual escapades. 

“I mean look, he doesn't reply, doesn’t move… It’s like the neatha problem all over again!” Brasti shivers theatrically, hoping for a dramatic effect. And despite that awful feeling beginning to burn within him at each mention of that damn position, Kest can’t help but smile a little at the statement. “I thought the least we could do is provoke him to counterattack!”

“And you really think this is going to work?”

The poacher smiles back at him. “We won’t know unless we try, right?” That said, he moves his hand toward the First Cantor’s forearm, with enough speed to cause him pain but not even nearly enough force to actually injure him. Basically what he does is make an effort to stab one of his best friends with an arrow. 

Brasti never misses while shooting but yet no one ever considered whether he would hit his prey while using his weapon of choice as a blade. Well, from now on, people may begin to wonder.

Before the arrow reaches its target, a strong grip appears on Brasti’s wrist, twisting it at an unnatural angle and causing— 

That damn pointed stick.  

—to drop down to the floor.

The red-haired man lets out a surprised yelp. Upon looking up, his eyes fixate on a pair of dark, visibly annoyed ones. 

“You’re the worst.”

The archer freezes, either from fear of getting one of his upper limbs broken or pure shock that his plan actually worked. The curled form by the bed once again became a man capable of normal human interaction. Well, semi-normal. If the gods were still alive, Brasti would surely think it's a miracle. 

“And you,” the First Cantor addresses Kest, whose expression mirrors exactly the one painted on the poacher’s face. “You didn’t even attempt to stop him.”

The sudden shift in his best friend’s demeanour seems to drive the swordsman into an absolute stupor. Every time he tries to say something, anything, the words catch in his throat. 

“In his defence, staying neutral isn’t equal to supporting the idea…”

“Brasti?”

The archer looks at their First Cantor, uncertainty still presents in his eyes. “Yes?” he prompts cautiously. 

“Shut up.”

That stupid smile of his emerges onto the red-haired man’s features, as he's visibly pleased by the turn this interaction has taken. His body relaxes, as he sits back, picking up the arrow still laying on the floor and taking a close look. Even though he doesn’t make an impression of being bothered, his voice is still slightly shaky the next time he speaks up.

“So you’re alright now, huh?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

Falcio doesn’t take his eyes off the man. Instead of replying, he lets out a huff of laughter - one completely deprived of any humour or happiness.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he says after a while, a sad smile continues playing on his lips.

This sentence is what finally breaks Kest out of his frozen position, as he almost launches himself at the First Cantor, wrapping his arms tightly around the man and shocking all three of them, himself included. “You’re not,” he whispers upon feeling his best friend melting into his embrace. “Neither of us is.”

Falcio feels Brasti moving closer and, after another short while, leaning on his other shoulder, the one unoccupied by the heavy pile of Kest. Thanks to this addition, all three of them end up in a kind of awkward, but surely comforting group hug. 

The First Cantor closes his eyes, letting himself relax, probably for the first time in many, many days. 

«Neither of us is.»

Well, obviously. 

Notes:

Thank you for stopping by! :)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of «The Holy Trinity of Bigjackets»