His hands are burning in this winter night.
He is desperately trying to stop the bleeding.
"Leave me" hissed the man who saved his life.
Oliver didn't move, cold fingers covering that pearly white neck. Two shaking hands on a wine spoiled flower. A lethal wound.
The dying man feels so warm, so vivid and so alive.
Not the marble statue that always looked at him with coldness.
He's losing him on a warm bed of red snowflakes, in a burning torrent of life.
"Run" whispered those black eyes pleading for the first time.
Oliver denied Marcus his last request.