#neil's switch to nathaniel...andrew choking kevin...

[dykekarkat]

just thought about andreil in baltimore. eye twitching.

[cloudysonder]

Home (Andrew Minyard/Neil Josten)

Summary: 

Neil had never known family. He knew the definition of it in four different languages and knew the word for it in twice as many. He never understood it, and probably never would.

But, looking out to what seemed like a sea of people in one room, looking into the eyes and the faces of people who would fight for him, people who he would fight for, and home, in the form of blonde hair and an uncaring stare that was a cocktail of both, he guessed that perhaps it would feel a little like this.

...

Set in the cabin vacation after Baltimore; drunk, honest, sorta sappy Neil (it's Neil) realizing that he's come home, and hoping, for the first time in his life, to stay.

Also: Drunk Neil is excellent at flirting, Andrew wants nothing, and they both give the Foxes heart attacks.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24332473

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Neil looked around the small table, crowded over by Foxes. He brushed his thumb over the shot Andrew had poured for him and stared out into what would've seemed like a sea of strangers, if not for the past year.

Now, he knew their names, their stories, their unwavering determination, and their inexplicable willingness to hold on to him, holding him tight with fierce words and fiercer glares at the things he'd been running away from all his life.

Neil had never known family. He'd known blood, sure, known his place as the Butcher's son, carried his father's name in his own, an unescapable shackle on him, and he'd needed to run, to get away, to change it, but not in the ways that mattered.

Blood was a curse, an inconsistent axing pendulum that'd he'd known since birth, and he'd run away from it all his life.

"It's dangerous." His mother's vicious snarl seeped into his bones whenever he stepped out of line, and they ran, always ran, because they hadn't had a choice, had they? But they stopped.

The smell of his mother's burning body on the beach still wrapped its tendrils around his head during the night, but if he had the control to smother his grief, he'd feel almost happy for her. She stopped. It was forced, sure, and Neil knew the tremor of force rushing through his legs a forced stop brought better than anyone. But she stopped.

Neil did too. He'd chosen it, over the terrified safety, over the lonely nights, over his mother's whispered memories.

"It's dangerous. "

Neil had the proof carved into his body. He curled his fingers around his shot, ignoring the sharp bursts of pain at the burns, and tilted his head back to let the alcohol fall down his throat. The burn in his throat distracted from his wounds, and he looked up at the Foxes again.

Matt, ever amiable, ever protective, had his arm around Dan, rubbing soothing circles into her back as he smiled, honest and relieved and so damn open that Neil felt the same relief bubble inside him. Dan was bared fangs and sturdy pillars of support, holding up a team that was like a raggedy old shack, all rotting planks and broken pieces that would've crumbled if not for her.

Renee and Allison were fierce stories wrapped in their own versions of redirection; Renee with her soft words and kind stare, and Allison with her perfect makeup and her flawless wardrobe. They'd both given Neil so much honesty it scared him.

Nicky downed shots like water, dancing to a nonexistent beat as the jokes and quips and cheerful smiles seemed to flow out of him, and Neil appreciated the mindless sunshine he always offered, even if he never laughed at his jokes. Aaron and Kevin stood to the side, a clump of exasperation and cynicism, even if Kevin was too drunk to roll his eyes properly.

Neil had been given their stories, even if they didn't offer them, and the two had never been especially good at transparency. But they'd fought for themselves alone for so long, and Neil would join their battle if it was ever offered to him.

The picture of happiness in garish orange and white colors in the nicest kitchen Neil had ever seen would've made him feel like a passing onlooker, the way he'd been for such a long time, if it wasn't for the way Andrew's intent stare fell on him.

A year ago, it'd look the same to Neil as his other stares. The Neil now had the memory of Andrew's lips on his, his steady hand on the back of his neck, his keys and a phone weighing his pockets down. The Neil now knew all of Andrew's expressions even when Andrew didn't, because somewhere along the line, Neil had stopped running because Andrew was home.  

Andrew quirked an eyebrow up at him, an almost imperceptible question. Neil pushed his shot glass towards him in response, and Andrew rolled his eyes before placing the bottle of whiskey in front of him.

“Staring,” Andrew mouthed to him, but no explicit complaint followed. Neil tried not to smile as he poured whiskey in his shot glass and knocked the swallow back.

Neil had never known family. He knew the definition of it in four different languages and knew the word for it in twice as many. He never understood it, and probably never would.

But, looking out to what seemed like a sea of people in one room, looking into the eyes and the faces of people who would fight for him, people who he would fight for, and home , in the form of blonde hair and an uncaring stare that was a cocktail of both, he guessed that perhaps it would feel a little like this.

The heat from the whiskey traveled from his throat and settled in a pleasant lump in his stomach, warmth pooling in his chest. The warm tears slipped out before Neil could process it, and he saw Andrew immediately stiffen, the familiar feeling of calloused fingers on the back of his neck before he could blink.

The rest of the team reacted in a ripple, Matt immediately noticing and concern spilling across his face before it reached his lips, and the girls noticing the shift in Matt’s expression before softening at Neil. Nicky silenced, and Kevin and Aaron watched from the sidelines, inscrutable. Andrew knelt down in front of him, and Neil watched their gaze flicker to Andrew in varying degrees of interest as they backed down.

Neil looked at Andrew, his expression deceptively blank as concern shaded his eyes. There were gears turning behind them, Neil knew, a list being formed of the people to hurt and the people to kill, coldness directed towards Neil’s enemies, never towards him, but always for him. He looked at Andrew’s hazel eyes, his pupil focusing on Neil with pinpoint precision, always looking at him, at Neil Josten, never Nathaniel Wesninski.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked from behind Andrew, his words tinged with worry. Neil nearly gave him the automatic “I’m fine,” but the words stuck to the roof of his mouth as he swallowed and tasted whiskey, physical proof of his decision for honesty, of the trust he’d been given and finally returned.

Neil felt the beaming smile spread on his face as he placed his hand on top of Andrew’s on the back of his neck. A wet laugh escaped him, and he recognized the sound as genuine happiness.

He watched the team freeze in surprise and looked at all of them as he spoke.

“I can’t believe I get to see you all again.” Neil felt the tears stutter on their way down over his smiling face. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, but it was still startling to hear the truth in the air.

He’d held his self-directed grief for his future inside him for months, and the relief was washing over him in waves. He watched his team soften in front of him, watched the same smile cross their faces as they looked at each other and cheered him. Nicky and Matt had started crying openly, while Renee and Dan blinked at misty eyes. Allison grinned while she poured Neil another shot, and Andrew got up but didn’t leave his side.

The next shots went down smoothly, as Neil leaned into the conversations around him, Exy-related or not. His mind was pleasantly fuzzy, his tongue loose and his expression looser, as he savored the hum of the alcohol, because he could, now that there was nothing he had to hide.

He’d zoned out of a particular conversation about the actors both Nicky and Eric agreed were on the “list,” and found himself observing Andrew again. He studied his broad shoulders, that Andrew had let Neil collapse on after Christmas at Evermore, his hands and calloused fingers that would rake through Neil’s hair, that would wrap around Neil’s body while the cigarette smoke on the roof swirled around them, the lips that tasted like smoke and ice-cream and chocolate, and Neil hated all three things but treasured the taste that he’d come to associate with Andrew.

Andrew, with the soft tufts of blonde hair that glowed in the sunlight, that Neil loved to thread his hands through. Andrew, with the hazel green eyes that shone green in the center and faded to caramel brown near the edges, the eyes that offered him his demons, and the black armband covered arms that accepted his.

“...pretty,” Neil breathed and watched Andrew’s eyes widen in surprise by a millimeter. He savored the way Andrew’s hands stilled over the shot he was pouring, and the way the confusion squinted his eyes. Neil smiled, and let his cheek rest against his hand. “You’re so pretty, Andrew.”

A hiccup followed, and Neil ignored it.

He was vaguely aware of Nicky, choking on a high-pitched squeal behind him, while Allison smirked, snickering at Dan and Matt as they both beamed.

“You’re drunk,” Andrew responded in German, and his cheek twitched in a way Neil had learned to interpret as amusement. Neil blinked slowly, as if comprehending his words, before he switched to German after him, and counted off his thoughts on his fingers.

“I like your eyes,” Neil started, and a wave of fondness rushed through him at the way Andrew rolled them. “And your arms. And your hair. And the way you play Exy.”

“Junkie,” Andrew interjected.

Neil felt a surge of something in his chest, a warm feeling that settled in his heart and helped weigh him down, and the dopiest smile spread itself across his face. There was an inexplicable urge to convey the feeling to Andrew, but the words were stuck in the warm syrup in his chest.

Three words. He’d heard them before, in the panicked whispers of his mother right before he passed out from the pain of her beatings. He’d remembered them in his bruised wrists, his bleeding wounds, in the shape of his mother’s back as she dragged him behind her, protecting him from everything but herself.

He didn’t want to put those same three words to Andrew, who stood behind him, instead of in front, who told him to stop running, who promised to protect him and pressed warm keys into his hands. He had offered him trust, he had given him a home. It was unique, this thing they had, and so, the words that fell out, almost naturally, were just so.

“I hate you,” Neil let the words escape and heard the way they were covered with the syrup in his chest and studied the way Andrew almost smirked, wanting to burn the image into his head.  

Nicky was translating his words to the upperclassmen in the background, while they murmured in bewildered excitement. Andrew flicked a cool gaze over them, non-threatening and observing, and they quieted out of habit.

“I want to touch your hair. Yes or no?” Neil made sure his words came out in a crisp and steady German, and Andrew’s responding nod got him out of his seat immediately, nearly tripping over the counter in his haste.

He buried his hands in Andrew’s silken blonde tufts and raked his fingers through the strands. Neil watched Andrew sigh, exasperated, and the surge of warmth engulfed him again, only encouraged by the whiskey in his veins.

Neil thought of Andrew, and the last game he’d seen him play; sweat glistening under the artificial light, slamming away every shot at goal the Bearcats made, focused gaze analyzing each player, perfectly matching them to memories of plays and strategies he’d watched weeks before. Neil remembered what he thought was his last look at Andrew, that he’d burned into his head, a panting, exhausted Andrew, beautiful even then, as he’d told him “Thank you,” and “You were amazing,” while imagining his kisses and his protection and his truths and Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.

“I can’t believe I get to look at you again,” Neil let the free token of honesty hang between them, and Andrew only stared at him blankly before replying.

“You already said that.”

“Not to you,” Neil countered, and let himself drink in Andrew’s hard edges that kept him grounded, and the glimpses of softness he’d catch in between.

“You’re staring,” Andrew repeated.

“You let me.”

“I don’t ‘let’ you do anything.” Andrew sighed, his tone deceptively blank. Neil took the sentence as the rare admission it was, the little peek of softness in his roughness. Giddiness pumped through his veins.

“You want nothing.” The smile on Neil’s face threatened to tear his face in two, pulling on his burns and cuts, but he couldn’t stop it. “You really do. You want nothing.”

Neil caught the start of a small smile on Andrew’s face, followed by a derisive snort and a glance towards the Foxes, who were staring at them intently, varying degrees of excited surprise in their expressions. Nicky, particularly, looked close to tears, as he continued rambling translations to a hyperfocused Allison, Dan and Matt, while Renee looked towards them fondly.

“Yes or no?” Andrew leaned in closer.

“Always yes.”

Andrew pressed a chaste kiss to Neil’s lips, and the familiarity of it did nothing to contain the ripples of heat that spread through his chest in response. When Andrew pulled away, Neil unconsciously followed him, leaning further in. Neil was acutely aware of the tinge of amusement in Andrew’s face, and the high-pitched squeal of a drunk Nicky behind him.

Andrew walked towards the door, whispering a quick “Bedroom,” in Neil’s ear before leaving.

Neil turned to the Foxes and began a clumsy “Uh, I think I need to, Andrew’s gonna, I might just--”

“Neil. You are fooling literally no one. It might just be the alcohol, but you’re smiling so wide I think your stitches are gonna pop. Shoo,” Allison waggled a perfectly manicured hand at him.

Dan and Nicky were snickering to each other beside her, and Matt looked so happy for him that Neil felt a prickle of embarrassment seep into his cheeks. He looked towards Kevin, who was being held upright by an annoyed Aaron.

“Um,” Neil started eloquently.

Aaron got the message, shifting under Kevin to hold him more easily. He huffed out a despairing sigh and looked straight at Neil. I’ll take care of Kevin, his expression said. Neil was shocked into stillness for a second before Aaron snapped out a frustrated “ Go, you dolt.”

Neil went.

Andrew was waiting for Neil on the bed, already tucked under the covers with a book in his lap. He flicked a bored gaze over Neil and made no move towards him. The picture was startlingly domestic, a shot from passing glances at family magazines in convenience stores Neil had ducked in and out of growing up.

That idealistic image of a two-person bed, of having someone safe to fall asleep next to and someone to wake up to, was in reach for him now, just two steps away from him, in the form of Andrew bathed in moonlight reading a book, his eyes greener in the blue light, his hair softer.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Andrew said, after a long moment. Neil didn’t know what he looked like. “We’re not doing anything today.”

Neil finally made the two steps, changing into the comfortable pajamas he found in the closet before slipping in the bed beside Andrew. He hummed in response.

“I don’t mind,” Neil replied, and he meant it. Andrew’s presence beside him in the too-soft bed wrapped him in a feeling of safety he thought he’d forgotten, and his body gave off a pleasant heat. He felt the sleepiness settle into his bones, aided by alcohol, and vaguely wondered if Andrew didn’t want to do anything because it wouldn’t be the best for his recovery to immediately return from a rough place to another, albeit much safer, one. He wondered if Dr. Dobson had told him that.

“Not Bee,” Andrew spoke from beside him, and Neil knew he must’ve been murmuring his thoughts out loud. “Tonight was my call.”

Neil burrowed deeper in the blankets beside him, relishing the warmth inside him, the warmth beside him, and pressed his lips to Andrew’s neck gently before pulling away. It was barely a second, but, for once, Neil didn’t feel Andrew stiffen beneath him, and the triumph in his chest made him huff out a small laugh. It was the thank you that Neil didn’t need to say, and he knew Andrew understood.

“Let’s go to the beach next time,” Neil murmured into the pillow, and he knew Andrew would catch all the meanings hidden behind it.

Stuart could very well fail in the negotiations, and the chance of Neil being killed by the Moriyamas was still very real. The if there is a next time went unsaid.

Neil had told Andrew about his mother’s cremation on the beach, had known that Andrew caught the way he stiffened whenever the place was mentioned, but he also knew that Dr. Dobson had suggested to all the Foxes to try to overwrite their bad memories with good ones, ones worth remembering. The threat of the Moriyamas was still palpable, but Neil had decided to stop running months ago, had decided to ditch his future for the present.

In the room, beside Andrew, Neil went one step further, and let himself imagine a future. He imagined falling asleep beside Andrew for the rest of his life and blinked slowly, watching the way his eyes raked quickly through the blocks of text in the book. He imagined nights of Andrew finishing books and starting new ones, of nights of snuggling into his warmth and his safety.

He let himself fall asleep, feeling home, and hoped, like he had never hoped for anything before, that he could keep it.

[c-valentino]

Clipped Wings

Fandom: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic

Rating: M

Characters:

Riko Moriyama/Kevin Day, Neil Josten, Ichirou Moriyama, Andrew Minyard

Warnings:

Graphic Depictions of Violence, AU

Summery:

Riko Moriyama survives the meeting of Neil and his brother after the Raven’s lost game - but at what price?   Kevin would never accept that some people declared a life not worth living anymore - least of all the young man he had grown up with. 

Chapter One - Broken crown

“Riko Moriyama is Not suicidal”, Kevin Day said with conviction.

“Well, seems he is”, Matt answered, “Did you seen his interview? He stepped down. Looked like a ghost.”

Last week, the Ravens had made it public: Riko Moriyama was stepping down as team captain and leaving the Ravens. All hell had broken loose on social media. Watching the interview had made Kevin’s skin crawl, but he had spoken to no one about it. His own team was still celebrating their well-deserved victory and Neil’s freedom.

This evening, the Exy sports community had held its breath when the news about Riko Moriyama’s suicide attempt had gone viral. The young striker had been found near death after OD’ing. Riko Moriyama doesn’t do drugs, Kevin thought bitterly. Something was very wrong here.

A week ago

Tetsuji stood up and left the room after Neil had entered, only Riko was left behind sitting on a couch, the white of his cast poking out from under his sleeve. Neil looked at it with satisfaction.

“You have cost the Ravens their coach. Are you satisfied?” Ichirou was facing him, observing him, and Neil felt a cold shiver running down his spine. He straightened and turned his gaze away from Riko.

“Your people are safe, as are mine. Yes, I’m satisfied.” How someone could smile as coldly as this man, Neil couldn’t comprehend, yet it came so easily, so naturally to this man.

“Let them call you by whatever name they like. You will always be a Wesninski at heart.” Ichirou gestured to Neil, beckoning him closer and he obeyed. "This situation requires a clean slate. " Ichirou stepped over to his little brother who didn't realized it at first and then looked up in utter bewilderment. "Get up," Ichirou ordered and Riko stood, head lowered. "I'm sure you've realized that words from my brother mean precious little," the older Moriyama addressed Neil without facing him.

"You are right about that…,” the backliner had to agree. The whole situation was a little unnerving for him. Riko, who had usually something to say, was as silent as a grave.

“I usually am,” the mobster said in a quiet, thoughtful voice that revealed that he had already moved on to other matters. “Now, let’s get this out of the way.” He grabbed Riko by the back of his neck and shoved him forward. The younger Moriyama stumbled two steps in Neil’s direction but didn’t utter any sound of protest. “謝れ,” Ichirou told him in that same quiet voice. Neil kept looking between them, but then it was Riko who lowered his head again, this time in front of him. “もっと,” his brother ordered him. The younger Moriyama gritted his teeth, then bowed, actually bowed, in front of Neil.

“I apologize,” he said, and Neil could hear how much that had cost him. The backliner looked questioningly at Ichirou, asking himself if this should mean anything to him. Yes, it was unexpected, but an apology hardly cut it in this kind of situation.

“You seem unsatisfied,” the crime lord observed.

“I didn’t say that,” Neil replied, remembering his place. He looked back at Riko, who had straightened again but refused to meet his gaze.

“You didn’t have to. And why shouldn’t you be? I hear my brother took care of you last Christmas.” Neil only nodded. “Did he show you his favorite knife?” Neil’s thought he could feel his scars burn as that memory was dragged out of him again by the man’s cold voice.

“He did,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice even. Riko didn’t react.

“I thought he might. It was a gift from your father, actually.” Neil narrowed his eyes at that. Ichirou held one hand up and one of his men stepped forward to hand him the very knife Neil had last seen at Castle Evermore. It was definitely the same one; he’d have recognized it anywhere. Ichirou faced his brother and handed him the knife. For an absurd moment Neil imagined the striker using it to attack him or his brother, but Riko hesitated before he took it, then stood there like a mannequin. The firstborn son spoke in a low and commanding voice to him. Neil couldn’t understand anything he said. He had never learned Japanese. Whatever Ichirou said though, it made Riko’s eyes widen and the color drain from his face.

It took him a while, and then, after forcing a few breaths in and out of his lungs, Riko muttered a single, hoarse, “No.”  It sounded almost pleadingly in Neil’s ears. The older brother huffed in disgust. He took the knife back and Riko gave it up without resistance.

“I’ve told my brother that he could choose one of his fingers to cut off. It seems though that he is too weak to go through with it.” Too weak, Neil thought, or just not stupid enough? He wouldn’t do it in Riko’s place. “Now, since he is a fool, he just lost his right to choose. So why don’t you do it for him?” The man offered the knife to Neil instead.

“What?” The young backliner just stared at it, unable to comprehend for a second.

“Cut his finger off.” It wasn’t an offer, nor was it a request. It was an order. Neil’s eyes switched between the knife and Riko. The young striker looked absolutely horrified but still didn’t protest. Neil had always guessed that his family wasn’t the only dysfunctional one; now he knew it for sure. Slowly, he reached for the offered knife. He deserved it, he thought bitterly, Riko fucking deserved it. Not only for what he had done last Christmas. He deserved it for Seth, for Jean, for Kevin, and most of all for Andrew.

“You know what?” he hissed at Riko, “One wouldn’t be enough.” He meant it to be intimidating.

“In that case, go ahead. Take all of them, if you like.” Whatever plea had crawled up Riko’s throat when hearing his brother’s words died and turned into a choking sound instead.

“You fucking deserve this,” Neil hissed in a low voice as he stepped right in front of the self-claimed King of Exy. “I should take your thumbs. Let’s see how you are going to hold a racquet then. I should ruin you hand, like you did with Kevin.” He practically spat his friend’s name at the young man in front of him. He waited for Riko to defend himself, to attack him, to try to run away; but none of that was forthcoming. The young man just stood there right in front of him, terrified.

“Don’t do this,” Riko whispered, his voice thick with fear. “Don’t take them, please!”

“Did you make Kevin beg too?”

“Don’t…”

“Did you make him beg?” Neil suddenly screamed.

“No, I didn’t,” Riko gritted out, and the young backliner was right in his face, gripping the knife until his knuckles turned white.

“What about your pet doctor Frankenstein? Did he make Andrew beg? Huh? When he drugged him, when he fucking tortured him, touched him, humiliated him, did he make him beg?”

“I don’t know,” Riko whispered and swallowed hard when his voice started to fade.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Nathaniel, I swear—“

“Don’t call me that!” And suddenly the knife was at Riko’s throat. He hadn’t even realized it. But there it was, his own hand holding it to that pale neck. “You might not get it, but not all of us beg for our father’s approval. —Not like you’d ever understand.” Riko just closed his eyes and and forced one deep breath in and out of his lungs.

“You know… Since you enjoyed inking me so much, why don’t you let me show you what I think would be perfect for you?” Neil asked, his tone carefully stripped of all emotion. He grabbed the young Moriyama by the hair, then pressed the tip of the knife into his skin, right next to the tattooed I on his cheek. He cut downwards diagonally, slicing the smooth skin deep enough that it would leave a scar. Blood was running down Riko’s cheek, the red a harsh contrast to his pale skin. The striker was taking harsh breaths now, his eyes clenched shut, his tightly clenched fists trembling at his sides. He was shaking with the restraint it took him not to bolt or attack Neil in this situation. The consequence of either would be fatal.

Neil took the knife away and admired his handiwork. He felt strangely detached from the whole situation, as if he was watching himself. He had cut a ∤ into the young Moriyama’s cheek. ‘Does not divide’ —he couldn’t think of anything more accurate. Riko would never come between him and any of his friends ever again. He wouldn’t let him.

“You would have made your father proud,” Ichirou said from behind him and Neil’s shoulders stiffen. He yanked Riko’s head back viciously and let go of him.

“Maybe. That’s the last thing I want though,” Neil answered, then turned around. He handed the knife back to the mobster, offering him the hilt first, while holding on to the bloody blade. Ichirou accepted it, then cocked his head in question. “I won’t cut his fingers off. I want to crush him on the court.” It was his chosen battleground in this crazy world of criminals. It was where he actually could fight and beat them.

“Oh, I’m afraid you won’t get that chance again. You see, my brother is retiring tonight.”

“Retiring?” Neil couldn’t believe it. First Tetsuji, now Riko.

“He will never play Exy again.” Neil didn’t dare to turn around and look at Riko at that moment. He didn’t want to see what that sentence had done to the young man. Never play Exy again? Unthinkable. Exy was the air they breathed. Exy was what they lived for; he, Kevin and Riko. Someone had cut them from the same cloth before they were born.

“May I go now?” he requested. He needed to get out of here. He had gotten what he had always wanted; his freedom. He couldn’t wait to get home, to go to sleep and wake up the next morning, knowing he was a free man. It was such a foreign concept to him.

“You may,” Ichirou dismissed him. Neil lowered his head respectfully, then turned on his heels to leave the room. Behind him he could hear the mobster giving orders in his ice cold tone again. His two men stepped forward and grabbed Riko by the shoulders and hands, straightening his fingers.

“Ichirou,” Riko pleaded weakly. It took two men to hold him down while his brother raised the knife and cut along the fingers of his outstretched hand, deep enough to bare the white of bones, slicing through nerves and tendons of all four fingers. Blood was gushing from the wounds in a red river down Riko’s arm, dripping to the floor and staining the carpet, while one of the men bent his fingers back until the bones almost snapped and splintered. The older Moriyama didn’t cut his brother’s finger off. He just made sure Riko would never regain the feeling in them again, would never regain their full motor-function, or hold a racquet tightly enough to step onto the court. His brother would never play again. The young King of Exy was screaming by then; in horror, in despair, in pain —Neil didn’t know, but the sound from behind the closing door chilled him to the bone, would never leave him ever again.

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