The next morning, Caius wakes up feeling much better.

His torso still aches with a burning that reaches his organs, but when he investigates the area under the bandage, he finds a mass of healing scabs and no hole to be found.

It’s still dark outside. Dawn hasn’t come yet. He carefully takes a tissue from the box on the bedside table and, with a wince, presses it to where the IV connects to his arm, removing the tube and shutting off the flow of saline.

He stands. He looks around for his shirt, then remembers it must have been shredded by the vampire.

Silently, he slips out the bedroom door and into the apartment’s main room. There’s a dark-fabric couch on his left side and a kitchenette, separated from the living room by a small counter, on his right. As his eyes adjust to the light, he sees a sleeping figure on the couch that he recognizes as Faust. He’s slightly too tall for the length of the sofa, so his legs are bent as he sleeps on his side.

In the careful dark of the pre-dawn morning, Caius takes the opportunity to observe the apartment. It’s clean and simple, without many hints of its owner. There’s a TV on the other side of the couch, and a bookshelf that’s lined with history books. The only thing out of place amid the modern-style furniture is a worn leather-upholstered chest in the far corner of the room, tucked behind an armchair.

Without thinking, spurred by curiosity, Caius walks towards it. His socked feet slide quietly against the hardwood floor. His pupils are wide and dark in the low light.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t snoop.” A rough voice comes from behind him, breaking the silence.

Caius jolts and turns around. 

Faust is awake - barely. He’s still laying on his side on the couch. His golden eyes are narrowed to slits with sleep. His glasses are folded on the coffee table.

“I wasn’t snooping.” Caius says, keeping his voice down. Something about the early morning, blue and indigo and heavy with the dark before the sun has even woken, makes him feel as though he should be quiet. “I haven’t opened anything yet.”

Faust lets out a breath. It could be a scoff or it could be a chuckle.

“‘Yet’ implies you were going to.” He says.

Caius takes a seat on the armchair next to the couch. He leans forward in the dark, leaning his elbows onto the tops of his knees, wincing at the twinge that the movement causes in his torso.

“I need to find my friend,” he says.

Faust sighs.

“I’d prefer if we could talk about this at a decent hour,” he says.

“The sun is already rising.” Caius says stubbornly. He’s always been a morning person.

“I hate people who are overly energetic the most.” Faust mutters.

Caius is right - the sun is starting to rise. The murky blues of the room give way to teal and a grey that almost glows as the watery morning sunlight starts to seep in over the buildings.

“I’m following the natural circadian rhythm of a species that lives in daylight,” Caius replies.

Faust glares at him.

“Nothing about waking up at sunrise can be natural,” he grumbles.

Caius sighs and stands. He walks to the kitchen.

“Do you have coffee?” He asks, already taking liberties.

Faust exhales.

“Cabinet above the stove,” he says. 

Caius opens it and finds a tin of instant coffee and a few mugs - one of them is the yellow one that he remembers drinking water out of yesterday, so he takes out that one, as well as a second and the coffee. The quiet sounds of the metal spoon clinking against the ceramic insides of the mugs fills the silence.

From the couch, Faust shifts to lay on his back and speaks up again.

“You’re better off not getting involved with vampires.” He says, continuing their conversation from earlier. 

“I’m going to do it whether I’ll be better off or not.” Caius says quietly, not looking up from the cups. On the kitchen counter, there’s an electric kettle that has been silently keeping its resevoir of water warm - he pours water into the two mugs and stirs. The bitter, slightly acrid smell of instant coffee fills the kitchen.

Faust scoffs.

“Young people these days are so stubborn.” He mutters.

Caius’s stomach growls. He remembers he hasn’t eaten anything for days. Before, the pain had kept him from thinking about putting anything in his stomach - now, the sudden hunger gnaws at him like a digging mole clawing at his insides. 

He opens the fridge. It’s practically empty, aside from three lonely eggs in a paper carton and half a loaf of bread. He checks the expiration date - a week past - and puts it back. The freezer yields similarly - a pint of ice cream and two frozen orange chicken dinners. 

Caius sighs.

He looks around at the living room, intending to question Faust about the sorry state of his kitchen.

Faust has gone back to sleep. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and regular.

The sun rises. Caius shakes his head. If the student body found out one of their most popular professors had habits like this, there would be an inquisition.