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He is going to die before you.
That seems impossible when he is in front of you - small and angry and more motherfucking alive than anything you have ever seen in your gog forsaken life. He rants and raves and loves and cares and he is the most beautiful you've ever laid eyes on.
But then you touch him and he is fire under your hands – a visceral reminder that he is burning really fucking fast thought what little life he has left - and it hurts, it hurts so fucking much.
You didn't know you could feel pain like this, ice-cold and lancing – the complete motherfucking opposite of him – shooting millions of tiny knives into your blood pusher. It steals your breath and make your chest ache unbearably, a wound that won't fucking close, no matter how many times you have tried to stitch up the edges. Not even karkat curled up on your chest like a catbeast can close it - he warmed you, made you forget, but it was still there.
He is gonna die and leave you alone. Alone again. And You are gonna have to spend sweeps and sweeps of your fucking stupidly long life with the image of him burned into the back of your peep storks, beautiful and blinding and motherfucking gone.
You are crying and he is making these little alarmed noises, squirming into your lap and grabbing your face in his fucking hot hands. You are so cold, always so cold, unless he is there warming to the motherfucking top with his angry affection. Before him, you didn't know what warmth felt like. Or love. Or how this closeness felt. And when He is stroking those stupid, stupid tears away from your face, kissing your forehead, even though it gets greasepaint on his lips, and motherfucking cradling you in his short arms, you wonder if you could live without this, without him.
Because you don't wanna out live this. You really fucking don't.