resurveil | i can feel it in my bones.

( sometimes it takes a long time to find one another. sometimes he never finds them; he dies early, gets hit by a car, shot, burned to death before sylvain is even able to begin his search. sometimes he's lucky, and he's born close to emmet--enough that by the time they're able to walk, they're able to walk to each other. sometimes it isn't so simple.

this time, it's--twenty years before sylvain finds him, walking through the hallways of the college he's been enrolled in. he's wearing a stupid tie, talking to another student outside a classroom that has a little board outside of it with the title of some stupid class and his name clearly etched in under it. sylvain quirks up one corner of his lips and keeps walking.

makes note of his name, the subject he's teaching, when his class gets out. when his office hours are--and switches his schedule around a little. comes back around, when his breaks seem to mesh well with emmet's.

watches the door for a bit to make sure the rest of the students are gone, out of his way. carefully, quietly makes his way in through the door while emmet's turned away. reaches for his wrist, with the hand where those three little lines identical to emmet's have been becoming more prominent over the last couple hours--and jerks both their hands up, to show the marks to emmet. )

Naughty of you. Aren't teacher-student relationships frowned on?

[The sound of glass falling like rain, the crunch of it under foot and tire. The smell of smoke thickly invading his nostrils, the distant sirens of aid coming from afar. Explosions of gunfire, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the dirt all around them in a time of war. A whistling noise overhead signalling an impending apocalypse - he's felt this a hundred thousand times before, the rise and fall of his heartbeat in his final moments. It's almost a sense he's heightened, being able to know when these moments are coming. To steel for the inevitable, or to fight it off for one more day and relish in the fact he was wrong.

He wasn't wrong when the rains made the battle field muddy, slick under the hoof of horses, weighing down the lines of men that were facing down the approach of their enemy. Grey skies darkened it all even before night was supposed to crawl over them, and no torches could be lit despite it all - which is why they had to act now, before true nightfall, or they'd be losing this war all on account of one battle. So when the cries went out, the horses charged - the archers took up stance and chaos ruled for the first half hour. Men fell from both sides, screaming in agony and put out of misery with steel and iron. They've been exhausted for the last two weeks in preparation and other morale crushing situations, so the arm was giving its all.

Emmet felt his heartbeat crashing in his ears, while the sting of tired muscles screamed at him with every blow of his sword against armor and flesh as time went on. It was too dark now to really see which side had a lead, if any, but blow after blow had started to stagger him. That was when he first felt that feeling again, approaching him like a droplet of water down the nape of his neck. He fought through it, but his ribs were breaking and he lost his footing to one knee. Something he scrambled to correct but couldn't - not before that last swing of-

He wakes up with a start, like he always does. When he is either remembering a past life, in bits and startling pieces for the first time in a new one or if he's only dreamed of it. If the latter, he never knows if it has happened already or is yet to come, and has to sit and dwell on it while thinking it over, again and again. Dream or memory? Dream or... He cups his hand to his neck, feeling over the now still intact vein, and looks to his side at the body in bed with him.

Voice cracking, he needs to know:]

Sylvie?

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