His lips shape the syllables of Koumyou's name, but he still can't utter them past the blockage seizing his throat. Hope, fear, denial, disbelief-- emotions rise in a jumbled tangle so alive that he kind of feels like he needs to vomit to get them out.

He stares at that hand for a moment, before his eyes follow it slowly, wrist to arm to shoulder, past the sutra drifting into place to the face, to that sharp, lined, familiar, beloved face.

His eyes blur as the stinging promise of tears fulfills itself. He reaches up and touches Koumyou's hand with an uncertain brush of his own fingers, just the lightest touch to gauge if it's really actually there.