A/N: So, for anyone who hasn't got the message, TRIGGER WARNINGS! This fic includes drug-abuse, death and feels. Yes, I'm in that horrid sort of mood where I want to make people cry. This one has inspiration from the film 'The Crow', and very obviously the song 'My Sweet Prince' by Placebo. Listen to it here: watch?v=5ASSP9tl0p0

Enjoy! - Gabriel

Prologue

"Louis? I'm back." Oliver called, pushing open the door to their shared home.

There was a heavy silence.

"Lou?" Oliver called out again. Perhaps Louis was out? No, his car is still parked in the drive.

He ventured into the living room, his shoes quick paced over the wooden floor, his heart speeding up with anxiety. He hoped that 'it' hadn't happened again. With that thought in mind, he raced upstairs, brains scattered near and far, and he burst through the laundry-room door.

"Louis!" Oliver said, disapprovingly, as the man sat with his back to him, leaning against the wall on top of the washing machine. He waited impatiently for a response...

All was silent.

"Hey..." Oliver murmured, shakily, fearing the worst, but not quite believing it, "Louis?"

He approached the blond man's stock still form, and slowly panned around the washing machine, keeping his distance. Louis was looking at the opposite wall, his palm flat on his left knee. Swallowing back, thickly, he came closer, his mouth closed tightly.

Something crunched under his foot.

He looked down, and his heart stopped when he saw about ten needles and syringes on the ground. Empty syringes.

"No," He choked, looking back up at the man, and rushing forwards, placing his hands either side of Louis' face. His body was stiff as a board, "Louis, no."

And Oliver couldn't breathe. Inside, he had been crushed. Every single bone, every single organ, vein and capillary had been crushed under the truth:

Louis was dead.

~/~/~/~

He had hidden Louis' body long after dragging him to the bathtub and turning on the water. His eyes had also turned on the water, tears streaking his face.

Oliver sniffed, his blue eyes welling up, his body doing everything to prevent him from screaming with grief. His very soul was scratching at him from the inside, every beat of his heart, every pulse of blood through his veins sending a sharp, fluttering agony to his chest. He moaned and fell to the floor at the side of the bathtub, tearing at his strawberry-blond hair, risking a glance up over the icy cold rim of the bath at Louis' lifeless, bruised arm, and his reddened chest.

The bruises were from where Oliver had squeezed at his arm, trying to squeeze out the drug, back through the little puncture hole that it came from. The redness on his chest was from where Oliver had frantically tried to punch him back to life.

It hadn't worked.

Louis had been dead hours before Oliver had found him. The Brit wouldn't have had a cat in hell's chance of saving him.

He looked at the Frenchman, and how his glassy, indigo eyes seemed to gaze off into the distance, how his wavy, champagne locks had faded into a dull, straw colour. How his lips had cracked, and how the blood hadn't clotted. How it just seemed to drip and drip from his lips.

He looked at Louis' pale skin, pulled taut over his skull, and the blue veins. He saw the wretched puncture marks in his left arm.

Oliver wished that his skin was still warm.

That his eyes could still look at him.

That his mouth would still talk to him.

"Give him back." He hissed.