Caius wakes slowly.

The first thing he registers is the blinding pain in his abdomen. It spears through him so vividly it’s almost numb - the neurons in his brain light up with the glow from his nerve endings. His eyes fly open and he gives a gasping inhale as though he can physically dispel the pain. Of course, the movement only makes it hurt more.

The second thing is that he’s cold from the shoulders up. Gooseflesh creeps up his neck. There’s the distinct feeling of a plush duvet cover against his bare chest and clean sheets warm under his back.

It’s dark. Caius blinks twice to make sure he hasn’t lost his vision. The vague outlines of a dark and murky room come into focus. He turns his head. There’s a window to the right of the bed - it must be night, because the sheer curtain wouldn’t be enough to block the light in the daytime. 

He takes a small breath. He exhales. He remembers how to breathe, working around the pain in his torso. His memory starts to come back - he remembers the feeling of being run cleanly through, his flesh rent apart, and vaguely has the thought that he probably shouldn’t be alive.

He tenses his arm to move - there’s an IV drip in the inner crook of his elbow. The movement hurts. He unconsciously makes a noise of pain as he laboriously starts to shift to prop himself up on his other arm.

The door at the far left corner of the room clicks open. Caius starts with surprise - the tensing of his muscles makes agony shoot through his body again, and he almost falls back onto the bed.

Warm light streams into the bedroom - Caius squints against the sudden intrusion.

The strange man has paused in the doorway. His hair is clearly blond, one long section draping over the left side of his face, messy strands curling elegantly around the tips of his ears. It almost glows with the backlighting from the other room. A set of thin black rectangular frames sits cleanly on the bridge of his nose. Caius can’t make out his features.

Seeing Caius’s current state, he sighs and walks into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Darkness returns. Caius tries to relax his eyes again. 

The man walks forward - he leans over next to the bed, reaching out, and Caius instinctively tenses, still wary, but the man only turns the switch on the bedside lamp, bringing light back to the room. Caius closes his eyes against the sudden glare. When he opens them again, the man is leaning over him, peering into his face with a frown.

Caius opens his mouth.

“Wh-” He begins, but the words come out as a croak, and he quickly devolves to rough coughing, every breath grating against his paper-dry throat. 

“Hold on.” The man says. It’s the first time he’s spoken - Caius looks up in surprise, his throat still burning and muscles aching from the coughing fit. His voice is middling in range, not particularly deep but not high-pitched either, with a measured and even temper. It’s vaguely calming. Caius finds himself relaxing slightly.

The man leaves the room again. When he comes back, he’s holding a tall mug - yellow with a matte finish - it matches his eyes, which are sharp and golden, Caius thinks with the detached observation of someone who’s still in shock. There’s a straw poking out of the top of the mug. The man sets the mug on the bedside table and reaches out to help Caius sit up, slotting a pillow behind his back, long fingers firm on his shoulders, every movement efficient and economical.

“Here.” He says, handing Caius the mug. Caius takes it gratefully, wincing when he brings up his arm without the IV in it.

The man takes a seat on a stool beside the bed and waits patiently as Caius drinks. He hadn’t thought he was thirsty as he was lying there, but as soon as the first drops of liquid touch his lips, he gulps ravenously, his tongue and his throat stinging with relief. He finishes the entire cup, and the man takes it from him and sets it on the bedside table again.

Caius clears his throat. He licks his lips, feeling the cracked skin under the tip of his tongue.

“Where am I?” He asks.