Jayce doesn't notice Lazar's observation, preoccupied with his own misery. He pushes into the butt of his fist against the ragged stone, and focuses on the pressure -- the uniform tension through his arm, straight and rigid. Inside, his guts churn. Clench.

He exhales. A shadow crosses him; he glances up, from the canteen to Lazar and back again. Doubt flickers across his face. Bile lingers on his teeth.

Gratitude -- or something close to it -- wins out. Jayce accepts the canteen with a shallow nod, though the swig he takes is quick and small, because he doesn't like the idea of his mouth touching the same surface as Lazar's, honestly, and he's only going to waste the water, anyway. He swishes it in his mouth, then spits it out -- intentionally away from Lazar's boots.

Passing the canteen back, he says, "I could barely remember my dreams in Piltover, let alone here."

(That's a lie, but this isn't a topic he wishes to discuss. Easier to nip it in the bud.)

He glances at Lazar again. A note of skepticism enters his voice. "You're really from here?"