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saysthemagpie
"Oh, him?" Mr. Horan settles back into his rocking chair, fussing with the wool blanket over his lap. "That's just old man Styles. Don't mind him, now. He does a lot of hollerin', but he wouldn't hurt a fly."
Liam looks down the street, still feeling apprehensive. He had first spotted the elderly man out his kitchen window nearly an hour ago, as he was sitting down after his morning run to eat a large plate of oatmeal. At first he had thought he was seeing things -- the shockingly scarlet suit and the large rainbow flag had felt like they might be some sort of exercise-induced hallucination, explained away by a sudden drop in blood sugar or something like that. But he'd eaten the entire plate of oatmeal, eyes fixed on the window, and at the end of it the old man had still been there, trooping along up and down the short stretch of road in their cul-de-sac.
Finally Liam had gone outside to investigate the matter for himself. There he had discovered that the two rocking chairs on his front porch were being occupied by two other neighbors: Mr. Horan from next door and Mr. Tomlinson from across the street.
They had not seemed surprised to see him. Nor had either indicated by any sign that they understood the porch was not their own. On the contrary Mr. Horan had been warmly hospitable, inviting Liam to "sit with them for a spell" and enjoy a nice glass of sweet tea.
Mr. Tomlinson -- who, Mr. Horan had explained, was in thehabit of misplacing his hearing aid -- had made little contribution to their conversation, except to glower in Liam's general direction. Liam's not sure Mr. Tomlinson's forgiven him for politely abstaining from setting off bottle rockets in the cul-de-sac earlier in the week.
It's been a rather strange first month. Liam had been so delighted to find the house -- right in his budget, well below market value -- that he hadn't thought to ask the realtor about the neighbors. Certainly he hadn't been expecting so many of them to be eccentric bachelors, all roughly between the ages of eighty and eighty-five.
"Is he -- er, Mr. Styles, is he all right?" he ventures now.
"Early bird," Mr. Horan says contemplatively. "Early bird."
Liam waits a moment, then offers tentatively, "Er, gets the worm, is that it?"
Mr. Horan doesn't seem to hear him.
"SENILE," shouts Mr. Tomlinson, six inches from his ear. Liam startles so badly he upsets his glass of sweet tea all over the porch steps. "HE'S BLOODY SENILE, THE DODDERING OLD FOOL. OUGHT TO PUT HIM IN ONE OF THEM FACILITIES FOR LOONIES."
"Now, now," says Mr. Horan, patting his leg. Down the street, old man Styles has stopped for a breather, the rainbow flag draped over his shoulders.
"Er," Liam says. "Does he always dress like that?"
"SEQUINS," Mr. Tomlinson roars. "BLOODY SEQUINS ON HIS TROUSERS, THE HARLOT."
"It's the dragon trousers I like," says Mr. Horan. "Lovely embroidery. Good lad, Harry! Nice form!" This last he shouts to Mr. Styles, who flashes them the peace sign.
"Is it all right for him to be out so long?" Liam asks.
"Oh, he'll be all right," says Mr. Horan comfortably, nodding to himself. "He'll be all right. Mitch'll call him in, once he's tuckered himself out. Good for him to have a bit of fresh air, I say. He's a good lad, Harry."
Sure enough, a few minutes later a dour-faced old man emerges from a house down the street. He scowls up at the sun as if it's done him a grave wrong, then scowls at them too.
"Morning, Mr. Rowland," Mr. Horan calls. "Fine day, isn't it."
Mr. Rowland shakes a gnarled fist in their direction. "You stay off my lawn, you hear?" At the sound of his voice, old man Styles perks up like he's been whistled for, shuffling back towards the house.
"Good lads," Mr. Horan says fondly, watching them disappear into the house, then pats Liam's shoulder. "Better get us some breakfast, then. There you go."
Liam blinks. "Right," he says. "I'll just -- is oatmeal all right?"
"That'll do nicely," Mr. Horan says. Mr. Tomlinson, fast asleep in his chair, begins to snore.
As Liam slips back into the house, the rhythmic creaking of Mr. Horan's rocking chair starts up again. Over it he can just make out Mr. Horan repeating to himself, in tones of great contentment, "Fine day, yes--a fine day indeed," while off in the distance, no doubt still wrapped in his flag, old man Styles implores the neighborhood in a quavering voice to Choose love!
no subject
Date: 2017-10-26 06:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-26 04:35 pm (UTC)"Er," Liam says. "Does he always dress like that?"
"SEQUINS," Mr. Tomlinson roars. "BLOODY SEQUINS ON HIS TROUSERS, THE HARLOT."
"It's the dragon trousers I like," says Mr. Horan. "Lovely embroidery. Good lad, Harry! Nice form!" This last he shouts to Mr. Styles, who flashes them the peace sign.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-26 11:23 pm (UTC)LOUIS CALLING HARRY A HARLOT
NIALL CASUALLY INVITING HIMSELF AND LOUIS TO BREAKFAST
CRANKY MITCH
LITERALLY ITS ALL PERFECT
my only questions are 1 is zayn in a retirement home like a sensible human being being lovingly pampered bc hes obscenely rich and 2 WHERE IS NICK IN THIS SCENARIO
no subject
Date: 2017-10-27 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-27 04:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-27 03:50 pm (UTC)(side note that having a 106 inch telly and using it almost exclusively to watch GOLF should be illegal thank u for ur time.)
no subject
Date: 2017-10-29 06:21 am (UTC)