Chapter Text
Coen had started so many new jobs, one would think he would be good at it by this point.
In the seven centuries he had been alive he had had countless jobs, and yet he always dreaded the first day. Remembering the name and backstory he was using this time, meeting new people, learning his way around new buildings, all while trying to make himself forget the old ones, was always nerve-wracking.
The first day never went as poorly as Coen expected, of course, but that never stopped him from dreading it.
Lunka hadn’t understood why he decided on this career at all. “Aren’t you tired of talking about all of that?”
His sister didn’t remember things as well. She was so much younger, and the turning had affected her mind more, considering the… complications.
Maybe that was why Coen liked teaching history, though: it felt like the only time he could talk about his family.
Coen got to the lecture hall early, and set up for his first class of the semester with the small bit of dread he always felt on first days. He heard the students filing in, but didn’t look up from his desk where he was lining up the stack of syllabi he was going to hand out. Finally, he ran out of good excuses and looked up.
It wasn’t a massive hall, and not incredibly full. Early classes never were, in his experience. The students were all in seats, some talking in small groups, most with coffee or other drinks in hand.
Glancing at the clock, Coen cleared his throat. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Cohen. I’ll be bringing some papers to the end of each row, please take one and pass it down.” He started up the stairs, leaving a small stack with the person on the end of each row. One of which was a young woman who fluttered her eyelashes at him, and brushed their fingers together as she took the stack.
There was always one each semester, so at least he figured out who it was this time already. He had been called attractive throughout his long life, even with the scars over his eye and on his chin, and heterochromia. In fact, it had grown even more prevalent once his hair started turning gray at the temples.
Coen pretended not to notice as he continued to the next and final row. He was about to speak again when the door slammed open right in front of him, and a whirlwind came in.
“So sorry I’m late,” the new arrival said. He nearly bowled into Coen, only stopping with arms out and with Coen’s hands up to help brace the impact. Coen was a step lower than the student, and so had to crane his neck up.
“It’s fine, Mr…?”
His eyes landed on the student’s face at the same time he answered. At least, so he thought. The entire world sounded like he was underwater, suddenly. Because Coen knew that face. Knew those eyes, that hair. That voice.
“Marat,” he whispered.
The student nodded, suddenly looking concerned. “Are you alright, Dr…?”
“Coen. I’m—Dr. Cohen.” He couldn’t speak, not sensibly. His whole brain was screaming one word, one name, over and over and over.
Marat. Marat. MARAT.
After what was either seconds or minutes, Coen cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from Marat. “That’ll be all today. Go over the syllabus, if anyone has questions, please email me or see me during my office hours. Thank you.”
There was some murmuring, but none of the students had to be told twice as they threw their belongings together. Coen went back to the front of the room, mind spinning.
“Dr. Cohen? Dr. Cohen?”
Turning back, Coen was punched in the gut by memories and emotions again when he looked into those warm brown eyes. “Yes?”
“I didn’t get a syllabus.”
“Oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry.” He fumbled for a moment before taking a sheet and handing it to Marat.
“Are you alright?”
“I… I’m fine. You just… you look like someone.” Surely that was it, after all. Sure, the name was a hell of a coincidence, but maybe over the centuries he had simply forgotten what Marat had truly looked like.
He found that hard to believe, but silenced the voice in his mind that pleaded that no, this was Marat, because that was simply impossible.
“I get that a lot,” Marat said, smiling.
“Really?”
“No,” he confessed. He brushed his long, wavy hair behind his ear, revealing a small, delicate earring. It was a simple golden hoop. And something in Coen felt that it was something Marat himself would wear. In fact, this Marat’s entire outfit of comfortable pants and a shirt with some band logo Coen didn’t recognize and a flannel shirt looked how Coen had thought Marat might dress.
“I’m sorry, Marat, I just… wasn’t expecting it, I suppose.”
This Marat smiled easier than the one Coen remembered, but the grin didn’t make Coen any less weak in the knees. “I must look like someone you were awfully close to.”
“You could say that. It’s been a long, long time, though.”
Marat studied him in a way that felt so, so familiar for a stranger. “Well, Dr. Cohen, I hope you have a good day. I’ll see you next class. I promise I won’t be so late.”
“I promise I won’t be so… odd.”
Marat just shrugged. “I don’t mind odd.” Then he turned and left, and Coen sat heavily at his desk, hands shaking.
What the fuck.