The first thing Lahar hears is a voice.
He can't parse the words together, for all that he can hear the sounds, clear enough to separate in spite of the cotton-gauze feel of his ears. The noises slip into his head, splash smoothly into some strange sense of consciousness without understanding, like he's completely lost his grasp on language, as if he is a child again.
But he knows the voice. Whatever else he has lost - and the stillness in his chest indicates that may be quite a lot - that memory, at least, has stayed. The warmth it spills over his room-chilled skin would make him smile, if he could move his mouth.
He doesn't know how long it is after that that comprehension comes back to him. There's no way to tell time, with only the half-useful meaningless noise in his ears and the darkness over his vision. He still has his eyes - he can feel the weight of his lids pressing him down into darkness - though he's not sure how useful light would be anyway, with his mental presence at least in some part absent. So he stays still, without any option to do otherwise, lets the familiar sound spill over him like a lullaby into the sleep he's spent long enough in, and then between one moment and another the noise resolves into words, meaning returning as if it was always there, like some curtain has been drawn back from Lahar's mind.
"I don't even know if this is working," the voice says. It's lower than Lahar remembers, grating over the passage of time or the catch of emotion, he can't tell which. "After all this effort this might be useless and I'll have to start all over again." Heat, pressure digging in at Lahar's wrist; fingers, he thinks, a callused palm fitting around the jut of bone.
"I don't care." It is emotion now, damp and sticking to the words until it's hard to drag them apart. "I'm going to bring you back to me, Lahar." The sound of air, a deep breath in a sob-roughened throat. "I'm not gonna fuck this up, at least."
You didn't, Lahar wants to say. You never fucked anything up, really. But he doesn't have the air for voice, can't exert his will over the shape of the body sparking sensation up to his wide-awake brain, and there's no way to offer the comfort he feels echoing an ache into his still chest.
He can piece together time a little better, from there. Sometimes the voice will refer to outside events, murmur "Morning" with the exhausted grate of insomnia layered over it, and the pace of the words gives Lahar a way to judge seconds, a framework for his maybe-existence. The touch helps, too, the flickering heat of fingers at his wrist or against the still skin at his throat or pushing gently through his hair, comfort for which Lahar can't offer gratitude.
When his breathing comes back, it's painful, agonizing as nothing else has been yet. It chokes in his throat, like the air is forcing itself down to inflate his lungs and lift the impossible weight of his ribcage, and the sudden thud of his heart is so loud Lahar can barely think for the frantic rhythm of it in the back of his mind. But there's another inhale, too, sharp and sudden with hope, and when the familiar touch presses against his throat Lahar will take all the pain he's ever known for the satisfaction of having a pulse to offer to the questing fingers.
He's expecting the sob, the wet shaky inhale. When there's the heat of lips pressing hard against his, he feels a burn like tears behind his useless eyes, the desire to respond so agonizingly bright that if he could come back from force of will alone he is sure he would.
He breaks out time by the shattered sound of relieved sobs, that night.
Everything seems to last forever, after that. With the steady pound of his heart in his chest it's impossible to sink back into the darkness, the sound of his own forced breathing keeping him from what illusion of sleep is left to him. The only thing to do is to wait for whatever comes next, to listen to the shuffle of paper and the incoherent mumbles from the only active force in Lahar's existence.
His body comes last. Lahar can feel the press of fingers against his skin, points of heat that ghost and linger at his forehead, throat, the insides of his wrist and the center of his chest, like there's a spark being set under his skin to jolt him back to life. Then words, strange liquid sounds like birdsong pouring in a waterfall over that sweet-rough voice, and then Lahar jerks, all his body prickling into the almost-pain of a limb coming back from numbness. He can't control the actions for a moment - it really is like electricity, seizing his muscles into some strange uncoordinated dance - but then it fades, releases his body into slack exhaustion instead of convulsive tightness, and when he gasps a breath it's under his own power.
"Oh," and the sound drags in his throat, vibration jolting hyper-sensitive over his nerves. His eyes open, light blinding him into incoherence in the first burn. The glow crackles through his brain, washing everything white and blistering and too-much, and he's flinching sideways, twisting away from the overhead glare and blinking rapidly to clear his vision. There's a blur, a shadow in the overwhelming bright of existence, and Lahar doesn't need to see details to know who it is.
He reaches out, shocked almost speechless by the responsiveness of his body, by the way the hand - his hand, if thinner and shakier than he remembers - actually lifts, stretches out towards the shape in front of him coming clearer with every inhale. But he has to speak, his voice is his own again and he has to say what he's been thinking with desperate force since he heard the familiarity of the tone wrapping unintelligible noises.
"Doranbolt," and it's grating, rough in his throat and scratching vibration up into his awareness, but it's clear enough, the syllables falling where they should to grant him the response he's been aching to give.
There's a lot they have to talk about. There's the tang of Lost Magic still clinging to the air like the static of a thunderstorm, Doranbolt's breathing coming heavy as if with immense physical exertion, and the frail outline of Lahar's own wrist speaks to the passage of weeks, maybe months of time. But the questions can wait. Doranbolt is taking an enormous breath, the sound stuttering in his throat, and when he drops to his knees to clutch desperately at Lahar's outstretched hand the pain of his too-tight grip is nothing at all. Lahar curls his fingers into Doranbolt's shirt, fists against the weight of the fabric, and when he pulls Doranbolt moves like Lahar's sapped strength is truly enough to urge him forward.
It's not until Lahar presses his mouth against Doranbolt's with all the force of a long-delayed reaction that he is alive again.