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You're out of Psii's medication.
You didn't realize you'd run out, because he's always handled the doses himself, because he can put up with pity about a lot of things but not about this. It pisses him off, being pitied for his health or even remotely thinking he might be pitied for his health, sets his teeth on edge and throws him onto a defensive that you never want to trigger.
("It makes me feel like - like you think I'm, I'm stupid, or lesser, or need to be - be - be fixed, and I don't - I am how I am, there's better things to p-pity me for, I'm not a fucking inc-c-convenience.")
("I didn't mean it like that, I just meant it's horrible that your masters did this to you," you said, at which point he socked you in the stomach and told you he hated highbloods as much as any self-respecting pissblood but if you ever brought up his tics as something horrible and pity-worthy again then he'd break your fucking nose.)
(Life is a constant learning process, and you have a tendency to talk over people and want to prove yourself right before you listen. You're working on it. Your mom has helped you stop being such a jackass, over the sweeps. Psii helps more.)
But right now you're out of the medication that keeps his seizures and pain to a minimum. His masters overworked him into a pan injury three sweeps ago. Not a full-on burnout, but overheated enough to frazzle a few synapses and misalign a few neurons. You didn't understand the full biology when Psii explained it to you, but you got the gist. He could have ended up with the verbal tics and not the seizures, or the seizures without the verbal tics, but unfortunately his pan is an asshole. You recognize the problem when you walk into the ablution block and he's standing in front of the sink, fingers curled around the empty bottle.
"Hi," he says, tucking it back in the cabinet.
"Did you have enough for tonight's dose?"
"Nahh. I ran out two - two - two and a... half nights ago? Keep hoping some will m-mat-er-ialize but I think I'm shit outta l-luck."
You swallow. For all that you two are pale and piling, you don't talk much about his condition, because you're prone to saying ignorant things and pissing him off, and he has a harder time putting words together when he's upset so your communication gets fucked up.
You should have told us sooner is on the tip of your tongue, but you bite down. That's too close to chastising, and it's not like you can do anything about it now. You've been on the open sea for the better part of a week and you've got at least another night before you'll reach any port.
"We'll get some more when we dock, okay? Are you going to be okay until then?"
He waves a hand at you. "Never better."
"Are you sure?"
A shrug. "I'm just gon - gonna lay down i-i-in my block so I don't - don't - concuss myself on th - the ed-ed-edge of the ablution trap if I fall."
"Do you want to come to my block instead?"
His shoulders hunch.
"I promise I won't say anything pitying," you offer, holding up your hands. "I'll be a completely abrasive jackass. But a completely abrasive jackass who can make sure you're okay."
You brace yourself for him to yell at you, but he shakes his head and smiles, relenting. "As long - long - long as you p-prom-ise to have a stick up your ass."
"Absolutely. I solemnly swear to shove a long metal pole so far up my rectum that I'm gagging on it."
"So no - no dif-f-fferent from usual, huh."
"Wow."
He grins and turns toward you, pressing his palms against yours. "You l-l-left yourself... wide fffucking open for tha - that - that one."
"I really, really did." You wrinkle your nose at him and twine your fingers together, tugging him out of the ablution block and into your own respiteblock. Aha. Your pile is approximately one thousand times better than his. Not that you're bragging or anything, except yeah, you're totally bragging about your incredible pile architectural abilities.
Psii settles himself on top of the pillows and blankets, closing his eyes. "'Mgonna - gonna - gonna... fuck it up," he mumbles. "If I puke."
"That's okay," you say, petting his hair. "We've got spare blankets."
He anchors his arms around your waist and pulls you closer, burying his face into your chest, his horns nudging either side of your chin. "I don't feel good," he tells you, helplessly.
"That's okay too," you say, holding him close, rubbing his back. "I've got you. What sort of not feeling good?"
"I hurt." He bunches his fingers up in your cloak. "Like - like - like the flu, like n-n-nausea, except in - in my pan, all - all fucked up, like it's scram-m-mbled, headache." A shaky breath against your collarbone. "My head hurts."
"Does your head always hurt when you don't have the meds?"
"Yes," he breathes, low and miserable. "S-s-sometimes with the meds - me - meds too, but not as - as bad, I - I don't - it does-n't always - doesn't always mean, a seizure, just means... my pan's fffucked up."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Just. Stay? Please?"
"Of course."
You fish one of your adventure novels off your shelf and half-sit up in the pile, reading to him while he keeps his face pressed into your side. He makes a few of his obligatory comments - where are the titty descriptions, why so many clothes and so little naked, these adventurers have nothing on us - but he's quieter and quieter as time goes on. Eventually, when he's so consumed by the migraine that he's just making miserable little noises against your skin, you put the book aside and lay back down.
You rub his horns and croon to him, and ten minutes after that he seizes for the first time.
Seizures are really not that dramatic when you know what to expect. It's been a few perigrees since he had one - or at least, one that any of you noticed - because you've been making sure he had his meds. He still has the occasional episode even despite them, and when you first met him he tried to convince you all that he'd be fine without the medication, and things went about as well as could be expected. (He was upset about the pricing, because the health systems here are fucking awful, because seizure medication is most often necessary for psions but priced for a highblood budget, because why would a psion ever be handling money on their own? It makes your skin crawl.)
You turn him onto his side and make sure he can breathe and count the seconds as he convulses and shakes. Two minutes later he stills, and a few seconds after that he moans quietly.
You wipe away the bit of bile he spat up with the edge of your cloak. "Hey," you say gently. "Welcome back."
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
"No, no, you're okay, you're okay."
He pushes himself up on his elbows. "Did I m-m-m - ma - fuck - make a mess?"
"No. No, no, you're okay, but you should keep laying down."
"Nnn." He doesn't need to be told twice, flopping heavily back into the pile.
"I'm going to get you some water, okay? Do you think you'll be okay? Will you have another episode before I get back?"
"I d-don't know. I can't alwaysss t-tell."
"I'll be fast. Is that okay?"
"Mmm. I mean, if I - if I - if I have another, hh, another, a-nother seizure you can't d-do much about it, ssso. You do you."
You kiss his forehead and extract yourself from the pile, returning with the glass of water. He sits up and leans against your chest, clasping it in his hands and taking small sips.
"How do you feel now?"
"Verb- verbal. But ow."
"Which is better than nonverbal but ow?"
"Yeah."
You loop your arms around his waist as he resettles, using you as a cushion. "I h-have the fffeeling," he says, "that b-b-by the end of this I'll have bur-urned an assload of calor-calo - calories. I'm gonna m-make a new workout plan. The epil - ep - epi - god dammit - epileptic fit package. Ahahaaha, you see, that's hhhilariously cl-clever because... fit."
"Oh my god."
"Tone m-m-muscles you for-got existed. Side ef-eff-effo-effects include p-puking, pissing yourself, and feel-ing like a - a highblood t-took a club to eveeery bone in your body."
You nuzzle the back of his head and duck to kiss the side of his neck. "Am I really not allowed to pity you for this?"
When he stiffens, you wince. Mistake. "No, of course I'm not - that was part of the deal, I'm sorry."
"C-can I try to ex-explain?" he asks. "And be pat-patient. Please. And sorry if I seize in the mid - hn, middle of talking."
"Of course. Take your time."
He's silent for a good two minutes, and when he speaks each word is carefully enunciated, like he's concentrating hard to minimize the ticcing. "Before I over-overheated, I c-could parse words l-l-like you. I could think a - a - a sent-tence and jjjust say it without hav-having to, to, to take all this ex-extra effort to k-k-keep the words from get-ting jumbled. I could t-talk as fast as you do without, with-out this fucking - fucking, accent, or handddicap, or whatever you'd call it. I p-prefer accent but take your pick."
"Accent it is, then."
"I used t'be able to - to - to not w-worry about having pills every nigh-night or b-b-be gauging how to st-ave off deb-deb-debil-i-tating migraines or anything. And I was really, really s-smart, like they'd g-give me puz-uzzles and code to sssolve on top of average respo-ponsib-respon-responsibili-ties and I loved it, I mean I k-know it was h-h-horrible and I was mistreated bbbut I was treated b-better than a l-l-lot of the other psions be-cause my apti, aptitude tests were so high and then - "
His breath hitches. You pull away from his neck and note the thin streak of gold down his cheek and ohh, oh no, oh no, he's crying. Your first instinct is to wipe the tears and shoosh him and hunker down in the pile forever, but you've made the mistake of telling him to hush when he was trying to explain something important before, and the way he shut down was horrible enough to make you remember never to do that again.
"Then wh-when - after I, nnn, over-heated, after my p-pan got d-d-damaged, it - it brought my proper-perty value way down? And I - I - I - I'm ssstill as smart as I was, w-which you p-p-proba-bably don't believe because I o-open my mouth and ev-erything sounds, sounds fucking, fucking, like I'm fucking, stupid - "
"I know you aren't stupid - "
"Let me talk," he almost snarls, and you shut up.
"I'm s - I'm sor-ry," he adds, shifting so he can turn toward you, bringing his hand up to pap your cheek. "I just need - need to - t-to talk. Without in-in-int-interruptions."
You nod.
"It b-b-brought my prop-property value way d-down. The accident, I mean. And t-they gave me the meds to k-k-keep me funct-tional so they c-could still har-vest my psionics, but they wouldn't - they wouldn't - wouldn't - wouldn't let me talk a-a-an-nymore?" His breath hitches again and he presses his face into your shoulder, his own shoulders shaking with a sob. "B-because it took me long-longer, and I sssounded stupid. So e-e-even though I'm still smart they w-wouldn't even let me com-com-fuck, fucking hell - com, commun-i-cate that, they'd hhhurt me whenever I t-t-tried b-because they were im-im-im-pat-ient and it was an-n-noying, so..."
You run your fingers through his hair again, catching the soft strands and rubbing at his scalp. He relaxes incrementally against you, but you can still feel the wetness of his tears against your skin.
"So things were - were horrible for, for me, for a l-long t-time, and they didn't cull me because my psi-psionics were ssstill valu-ble but that was the only thing valuable a-about me, and I - I - I - then I was at the s-sermon and I tried to ask a qu-question and - and someone in the crowd said to, to, to shut up and you t-t-told them to let me speak..."
Oh. Oh, god. You remember that moment. You remember that moment vividly, both because it was the first time you met Psii and because you recognized him from your visions and you weren't sure and you were trying to contain your excitement and you get impatient with people interrupting others' questions to begin with and oh, god, you didn't even realize how much that mattered to him.
Oops. You're crying a little too. You stay quiet, though, and let him continue.
"And - and w-when I came up to you af-after the sermon, you let me t-t-talk to you and, and it was the fir-first t-time since the accident that I c-could talk and feel like the other per-p-person wasn't j-just humoring me and I, I, I would have d-done anything - you were so k-k-kind and I would have done a-anything for you."
He's silent for about three minutes, settling against you. When you're certain he's through talking, you say, "I'm not sure how that was meant to make me pity you less."
"Fffuck. I got side-s-s-side-tracked. You g-get to l-listen to me talk a lot ag-again."
"By all means."
"The p-point is, there's - there's nothing, n-nothing wrong with, with the w-w-way I talk, or with, with me hav-ving epil-epilepsy. The s-s-speech is just... s-slower, and takes more ef-fort, but it takes more, m-more effort for me than it d-does for peo-people to lllisten to me, and - and when I talk it's b-be-because I want to. And when you i-i-interrupt me or talk f-f-for me to other people or say that it's - it's - it's awful and, a-and pitiful, then it's like - like - like, I f-feel like. Feel emb-em-embar-ras-sed, like I shouldn't b-be talking, like I'm w-w-wasting your time or - or like I'm not worth speaking for, for myself, and. I d-d-don't want you to p-pity me for how I talk, okay? You can pity me for g-g-get-getting hurt or being in p-pain or not feel-ing well but I don't want you to p-pity me for talking funny or hhhaving sei-seizures, because, because those are j-just parts of me th-that m-m-make - make other people uncom-uncomfort-fortable, not me."
You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss his knuckles, closing your eyes.
"I'm f-f-finished now," he says. "Unless you're still confused?"
"No, I understand. At least, I think. As much as I'm able." You kiss his knuckles again, smoothing your thumb over the back of his palm. "I'm so, so sorry for speaking over you."
"It's okay."
"It's not, really. Thank you for explaining. And I'm sorry for not getting it earlier."
"'Sokay. I d-don't usually talk this long anyway."
"You can, though. You can talk as much or as little as you want to. I'll listen." You wrap your arms back around him. "And if I ever don't, you have permission to zap me."
The corners of his mouth twitch. "Well, that's a quick and ef-effective com-muni-cation method."
"Sure is!"
"Careful. I really w-will."
"I don't doubt it." You find his hands, squeeze his fingers. "I mean it, though. If you need me to shut up then a gentle psionic shock will do the trick."
"Duly noted." He lays back down in the pile, closing his eyes. "My v-voice is tired now, though. And my head hhhurts. 'Mgonna, 'mgonna rest. Read a l-little more?"
You tweak the tip of one of his horns. "Of course."
"Add in some viv-vivacious titty des-descrip-descriptions, too."
You swat his shoulder.