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Summary
“Two weeks, Harry. Two weeks.” The words were barely able to be heard above the gentle creaking of the old overhead fan. “Two fucking weeks.”
“I know.” A pause. “I know.”
The shaking hands gripped onto the leather book, the effort making the tendons in the lower arm stick out. The fingernails went white with the pressure. “Two weeks.” A creaky inhalation. “I only have two weeks to live.”
Or: Harry and Louis are old now. They've lived full, happy lives, but the end is near. Louis breaks down. Harry comforts him.
