Cal was interrupted by a back spasm and had to step away from his lab table. The television flickered mutely on the corner table; he hadn't paid attention to it for hours, except to absent-mindedly shut the volume off when television gunshots interrupted his concentration. He'd needed the time away. Time in his own head, time when he could center himself; could be himself; could stop thinking about anyone else or himself as himself. Instead he'd thought only of the task at hand.

The potion simmered restively on its heating coil. Cal glanced at the temperature, took a step back, and eyeballed the color, then switched off the heat and ran his fingers through his sweat- and moisture-crisped hair. Done, done. Another for Kosa. He rubbed his stinging eyes and took a step back, groping for the bottle-stopper, which he settled carefully onto the bottle with gloved hands. Very carefully, Cal avoided thinking what it was for (probability-based particulate degeneration).

Then, at last, he shucked his gloves, crossed to turn off the television, and stood for a long, quiet moment in the new dim fluorescence of his lab, rubbing his knuckles over his lids. He had no idea what time it was; he had come over from Jasper's quite early, at perhaps four o'clock in the morning, and been working since. Now it was two o'clock, but of what day he wasn't sure. He needed something to drink, didn't want to take more doxy powder, and decided on coffee. He'd run out of any in the lab, but they kept a replenished cupboard in Gordon commons.

Stretching--the muscles between his shoulderblades twinged--he shrugged into the jacket he'd left hanging on the door, stuck his hands in his pockets, and, head down and belligerently forward and a tattered copy of Gulliver's Travels under one arm, set off.

Once there, he flicked on the lights--the room, couches and cabinets--flashed into buzzing view. The coffeepot was still on in the corner, and he took a cup, but didn't drink it, too disgusted by the faint patina of soap in the mug. Instead he set it down on the table and lay back on one of the couches, hands behind his head, eyes shut, waiting for the afterimages of hard visual work to wear off. He supposed he could go back to Jasper, but he was going out tonight; Cal knew what that meant. It wasn't a night for the usual. Besides, he'd have to get back to work soon enough.

Oh, well.

He tipped his head forward, then back, then forward, and picked up his book, thumbing through the last section. Misanthropy. Ha.

It was the beginning of a new cycle, although he preferred not to refer to it as a cycle as it made him feel like a woman. With the disappearance of the moon he had regained his former complexion, vigour, enthusiasm and was starting to put on the weight he lost. He was also back at Cambridge and trying to go back to being a normal student. No more dark circles under his eyes and beards!

Yet it felt odd coming back. He was rather dissatisfied to discover that his world has shrunk. Its significance dwindled in the light of his new ties to the Wizarding World. The non-magical was no longer a source of fascination simply out of familiarity. And he also felt he had lost his place in this world, but also waiting to find his place in the other. He was in limbo, which wasn’t very comfortable. As a philosopher, he liked to define everything, including himself.

His efforts to assimilate himself were growing more and more half-hearted. It became apparent over the three day he had returned that he could no longer identify with his old friends. And keeping his secret from them felt awful- it was like he was now forced to observe them through a tinted glass. A spectator rather than a participant.

And the college parlour crawl was helping. This, he decided, would be his last vain attempt. At least there was alcohol. The staple cure to student woes.

He met Jane, Eddy and James at Churchill College for the first round of drinks. After that first pint of beer, they moved on. Next was Selwyn College. And he was growing even more restless as the time wore on. He listened absently to Jane’s argument with James about ethical dilemmas and why they always seemed to involve the choice between killing an old person, a fat person and a baby. Another pint gone. And then a walk to Gordon Labs. Armed with another pint, he spotted Cal.

The party he was in decided they weren’t getting drunk nearly fast enough and chugged down their poison of choice. Dorian declined and, after stating he was still feeling bit rough from last nights trip to the clubbing ring, entreated them to go without him.

He’d rather talk to Cal. Because he knew what he was and talked to him regardless. He wanted, selfishly, to be acknowledged for what he really was rather than his façade. And what was most strange was that that illusion had been the truth a month ago.

“Don’t mind if I join you?” he asked cautiously, noting the book. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

It took a moment for the interruption to register with Cal, but much less of a moment--a sliver of half-conscious distraction--than would be his usual. Usually it took at the very least a loud noise or Jasper's hand over his eyes, around his waist, or delving into more exploratory territory, to snap him out of his habitual trance. Now, with the skin between his shoulderblades crawling and his limbs vibrating, his chin vibrating, it took the least noise. His eyelashes made fiberoptic lines in afterimage flare; fly-shadow; flare. The feeling that jolted through him when he heard the voice was suddenly and immediately and startlingly tinted with Jasper--for a moment he thought it was--

but it resolved again into clear light-brown and gray and he blinked up, past the ruffled pages of his book, at Dorian Walters. Unexpected too was the lurching jump in his stomach, totally unrelated to fear or sour judgment. He was happy to see him.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

"No--no!" Cal cast aside his book with an exaggerated, nonchalant flip of his fingers. It skidded over the table and flopped in a tent of bent pages onto the floor; he ignored it and stood up, holding out one hand to the young man. "You're not at all. I'm very pleased." He was blushing and trying to sound like Jasper, and felt, on the whole, rather light-headed.

"--to see you. I--" He stood on one foot and then the other and settled for a flat-footed smile, pumping Dorian's hand up and down heartily before he let it go. "How are you? You look very--well."