I don't like the way my head feels.

I don't like it.

Ash was peripherally aware that his thoughts were simple as a child's; a vague nauseous ache of the mind. He didn't have the strength for it to matter.

I don't like what happened to my head, to me, going outside myself. In other people's heads. It was all so loud. Some of me is missing.

His own panic had embarrassed and unnerved him, when the guards had come for him. He'd been well aware that it was pointless, that he'd save himself humiliation by going willingly, even as he'd been utterly unable to do so. Then Kieran had saved and damned him with one breath.

'You are not here.' The same mantra he'd repeated through his first few days. Coming from Kieran's lips it had become the truth. He'd felt Kieran's breath on the skin of his ear, and been drawn into that sensation, even while it lost its meaning. Sounds echoed and distorted, the act of walking had absorbed him, and when he'd passed through the intangible membrane of the ward he'd flown apart.

If Kieran's voice had not recalled him, he didn't think he would ever have come back. He would have become one of those peripheral prisoners who were moved around like stiff-jointed dolls, waiting to die. But... he had come back, gathered into himself by Kieran's enfolding arms and sawtoothed voice. He knew that memory would make his heart ache later, but the feeling was lost in the general soreness now. Sensation was muffled. Where he lay with his head on his arms, blanket tucked around him, he wasn't sure if he was cold or warm, bleeding or whole. He looked past the small mountain of his knuckles to where Kieran flowed through a series of mock-fights, underwater-slow.

That grace soothed his eyes. Kieran's heartbeat still echoed in his head. Just yesterday he'd been pleasantly miserable debating with himself whether he was in love or merely infatuated. Now it was obvious that none of those words had any real meaning. He knew one simple thing, and of that he was certain beyond the need to think about it: I'll die without him.

He meant it without metaphor; literal death waited beyond Kieran's protective shadow. Whether his mind or his body broke first, it was clear he lacked the strength to survive the damage without Kieran's help. It should have frightened him, but instead it seemed to help a little, knowing what it was he needed.

I know how things are for you, Kieran. I know how you can swallow emptiness and hold it inside. What I still don't understand is how you draw strength from that void. Are you unhappy like I am? Or are joy and sorrow two more of the things you don't perceive?

The dinner bell filtered through many layers of detachment and reached him after it had stopped ringing. It took a moment to remember that he had to do something in response to the noise.

Leaving the cell made his skin crawl. The sight of tan uniforms worried him. He dealt with it by copying Kieran, doing what Kieran did, and by this means managed to line up with the others and march to the mess hall, and did not panic and bolt. He got his tray, allowed food to be put on it, went to a table and sat down where he could see Kieran's face. Nothing else was quite real. Kieran scooped up a chunk of overcooked potato on his spoon, so Ash did too. But when he considered putting food inside himself, in his mouth, chewing, feeling it slide down, he thought he might vomit.

"Eat," Kieran ordered.

He almost said 'I can't' again. But the sound of those words in his head was more disgusting than the thought of food in his mouth. He ate. It tasted like wet paper.

Outside, it seemed offensive that the sun was shining. I'm in the desert, he reminded himself. That's what the sun does here. It shines with a hard high-pitched whine and burns away everything soft on the ground. I am a soft thing being burned. Kieran is not.

"Square stance," Kieran said.

Ash frowned, trying to make these words make sense.

"First one I showed you. Feet apart and parallel."

They were going to practice fighting? Ash didn't think there was much point. "The thing I need to fight is in my head," he murmured.

"So show it you're a badass. Square stance." Kieran waited a moment, then barked, "Today, Trine."

Because it was easier to obey Kieran than argue with him, Ash did as he was told.

Kieran put up his hands, palms out. "Start where we left off yesterday. Right straight, right cross, left straight, left cross. We're working on accuracy again."

Weakly, he knuckled Kieran's left palm, then missed the right one entirely. Took a moment to remember how to use his own left hand. Pathetic. I'm pathetic. He kept missing the straights with his left, missing the crosses with both hands, until a short segment of a small-child whine escaped him and he broke stance. "I can't do it today. I'm so stupid today."

Kieran's hand darted out and smacked Ash's forehead. He put his hands up again. "Start over."

Ash made one weak swing, forgetting his form entirely, then turned away. "It's useless."

A hand on his shoulder spun him around, a slap stung his face. "That's useless," Kieran growled. Another slap; Ash reeled back, tears threatening. "That's useless." Showing teeth, Kieran darted slaps at Ash's cheeks and forehead, shoves at his chest and arms. "You going to let me win? You going to let me do this to you?"

"Ow! Kieran!" Ash flailed instinctively at the next hand that came near him. The blows were coming too fast, he couldn't block them all, Kieran had turned against him, his shelter had become his enemy and it was all over -- fear sparked in his chest and everything went bright. He slapped away what seemed like a hundred hands at once, and in his panic followed this flurry with a blow of his own.

Everything went still. His fist was wrapped in Kieran's, and the tall Iavaian was smiling.

"Feel better now?" Kieran asked gently, and Ash realized that despite the alarming speed of the blows, Kieran hadn't hurt him. He couldn't even feel where Kieran's hands had landed.

"Define better." But in his own grumbling, Ash heard that his hopelessness was gone, at least for now. "You're a mean bastard, Kieran. You didn't have to hit me."

"Okay." Kieran released his fist. "Square stance."

Gritting his teeth, Ash lined up his feet, bent his knees, and smacked a fist into Kieran's palm. Right, right, left, left. His form was sloppy, but he didn't care. He was supposed to be working on accuracy, not force, but he was throwing his shoulder behind each punch, and it felt good.

Kieran's palms were reddened by the time they were done, and Ash's knuckles swollen, and his despair had vanished. And, somehow, he hadn't missed once.

"What are you doing?"

Kieran turned from the washbasin, water running off his elbows, the muscles of his back shifting deliciously. "Conducting the Gevarne Philharmonic. What's it look like? I'm washing my shirt."

"Why?"

"It smells. How many sit-ups was that?"

"Thirty."

"You did thirty-five yesterday."

"I'm just resting." Ash settled his chin on his knuckles and watched the movement of Kieran's shoulders. It came to him that he was more resilient than he'd thought. Just yesterday he'd been half mad with fear and hopelessness, but already his libido was back. He wasn't yet sure he forgave Kieran for hitting him, however little physical damage he'd done, but if the point had been to awaken Ash's urge to survive the ploy had succeeded. His mind still felt bruised, though. He hadn't slept particularly well, had woken before the bell today; it still hadn't rung. The sky was just starting to go gray. He'd been a little surprised to find Kieran up before him, but no explanation had been offered and he didn't feel like asking for one. He waited until the ache in his gut subsided and did ten more sit-ups before looking at his cellmate again.

"You going to wear it wet? Or go to breakfast without?"

"Without." Kieran wrung out the wad of blue cotton, then turned with a grin to snap it at Ash, spattering him. "You look better today. How're you feeling?"

"Peaceful."

"Peaceful! And you think I'm a nut job." He made a shrug into shaking out his shirt. "Whatever works for you, I guess."

"And you? How are you?"

"Same old. Bored. Whiffy. Wish they'd let us in the bath more than once a week. Clean water would be nice, while I'm wishing."

"When we get out, let's go somewhere there's a lake, and swim until we get all pruney. And burn our clothes."

"I thought you didn't believe I can get us out of here."

"I trust you."

That put something into Kieran's eyes that was halfway between anger and worry, and only lasted half a second. "Good," was all he said.

The bell rang. Kieran spread his wet shirt over the rim of the washbasin, then tugged at the string of his trousers, with a jerk of his chin toward the door. Ash obediently looked away. Having to share a toilet was no longer embarrassing; there was a certain etiquette to it, that was all. When Kieran muttered something in Iavaian, Ash pretended not to hear. That was how you made your own privacy, in a place like this. Still, he wondered what it had been -- Kieran had never talked to himself before.

All the doors opened. Ash stood, yawning. He was too sleep-deprived to be hungry, but it wasn't as if there was a choice. "It better not be sausage today," he began to say, but lost his train of thought as Kieran walked out past him.

The difference was subtle, but shockingly effective. Pants hanging an inch too low, stride fractionally shorter, leading with the hips just a little, tilt of the chin somehow saucy instead of arrogant today -- What the hell is he up to? He looks like a slut.

Ash wasn't the only one staring. Several inmates, more likely woman-starved than fey, were gawking at the spice-colored spans of Kieran's skin. And one of the guards had his eyes fastened on the jut of Kieran's hipbones with an anticipatory, gloating look Ash didn't like at all. Ash tried desperately to marshall his thoughts, to understand this change, but he'd been walloped by the same hormonal sledgehammer. It made him feel simpleminded -- as well as too hot all over, so he was undoubtedly turning bright red.

As they took their places in line, someone snickered. "Looks like somebody got some last night."

"Shut it." The guard who'd been staring sauntered down the line until he reached Kieran. He raked his gaze up and down Kieran's body. "Where's your shirt, Trevarde?"

"Washed it, sir." Kieran's voice was different too. The razor blades buried just a little deeper in the candy. It had a purr in it. Ash was beginning to be frightened.

"Getting domestic, are we? Thinking of starting a business? Taking in these lads' washing?"

"They don't have anything to pay me with." Kieran's smile was a challenge; the guard's was a threat.

"Back in your cell, boy. No breakfast for you today."

Kieran gave a liquid shrug. Though Ash tried desperately to catch his eyes, he only stared at the guard. The line moved out without him.

Sick to his stomach, Ash picked at his breakfast. Halfway through the period, someone sidled up to his table as if to drop some smartass remark, but when Ash looked at him he went away without saying anything.

In the yard, he punched the air three hundred and thirty-two times, and didn't think about anything but counting. He didn't dare. He didn't even try to tell himself that Kieran would explain, that it would be all right, because he knew it wasn't all right and there was nothing he could do about it.

On the way back to the cell, he kept counting; steps, prisoners, skylights, anything. He felt light with fear, unreal and floating, moving by habit. He half expected the cell to be empty, but Kieran was there. Ash walked into the cell like a clockwork toy and sat down on the edge of his bunk, opposite where Kieran sprawled, and didn't let himself feel relieved that the tall boy was at least still alive. There were worse things than dead, in this place, and Kieran looked like he might have discovered one of them.

Kieran was lying on his back with his eyes open. His color was bad, and he blinked too often, but there was no mark on him. Except for the blinking, he looked like a corpse. One arm trailed over the edge of the cot, the hand dangling limply. After a long time, Ash leaned out to touch that hand, to find out if it was clammy or fevered; it must be one of the two, the way Kieran looked.

"No touching," Kieran murmured. His lips barely moved.

"What happened?"

"Ask me later."

Moving carefully, so as not to startle, Ash knelt on the floor beside Kieran's bed. As he did, he noticed something under it. The tin cup they had to share, with a pellet of something brown and wet stuck to the bottom.

"Put that back," Kieran said sharply, though he didn't move. "Don't touch it. Don't move it, don't look at it, don't talk about it. They find out I have that, we're fucked."

"What is it?"

"Poison."

Ash slid the cup as far back under as he could reach. He stood, and looked down at Kieran for a long time before Kieran looked back. "What did you do, Kieran?" He was proud that his voice came out quiet and even.

Kieran sighed, his eyes wandering away again. "Remember how I said I used to have a habit? It never really goes away, you know."

"That's opium?"

"Quiet! He wanted me to eat it while he watched. I had to put it under my tongue. I'm going to have to put it under my tongue every time."

"Every time what? Kieran --"

"It's costing me, to let it sit under the bed. You understand? Don't make it harder."

"I see." Ash backed up until the edge of his bunk hit him behind the knees, and folded. "How many more times is this going to happen, Kieran? How much do you have to hoard before you can use it in your plan? How can you stand --"

"Not that." Kieran blinked at the ceiling. "That one you don't get to ask. Your other question -- at least three more like that. More would be better. He gave me a fat dose. Guess he figured if I was lying about how big a tar habit I had, lying so I could share it out or something, a big wad like that would kill me."

Ash hadn't thought his heart could shrink any further, but at this it squeezed down to pebble-size. "How much did you swallow?"

"Don't panic. I didn't even fall asleep. Used to eat suicide doses like candy. That's not the problem. The problem is I can't think about anything but the cup under the bed."

"Oh." Ash swallowed. "I could, I could --"

"No you couldn't. There's no place to hide it and I could take it away from you any time I wanted. Leave it."

"I could... distract you, I was going to say."

"What?" Kieran gaped at him, with a rasp of incredulous laughter. "You have the worst timing I have ever fucking witnessed. I just sucked cock at gunpoint, you dumbass. I'm not exactly in a cuddly mood."

"You --? But. That's not -- I didn't -- oh, god." Mortified, Ash buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I told you you didn't want to know."

"Oh god, Kieran, isn't there any other --"

"Fucking drop it, Ash. I used to do it for a living, it's no big deal."

He sounded calm, even jocular. But when Ash dared to look up, Kieran was staring at the ceiling again, blinking slowly and too often.