Thirty five years. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less - the time for living that allotted to him. The prosthesis on his back, in addition to keeping him alive, was slowly killing his body from the inside.

Every second of every day. Year after year.

August never actually had the “I’ll die soon” conversation with you, just somehow mentioned it, trying not to dwell on the fact itself. Nobody likes to live in constant fear of death, and he would hardly appreciate pity, so basically he continued to live as he lived, not paying attention to it. But despite everything, you were worried because... how could you not worry about your partner? You don't want him to die. You want him to always be there, so that you can grow old together, so that he doesn’t—

"Thinking about something?" August's voice pulls you out of the whirlpool of your anxious thoughts.