They were everywhere.
If he looked to the left or the right, he saw them all sitting around the lawn staring at him with dead eyes. Each of them had been a different shade of pink and there was no doubt that all of them had a name.
The pink flamingos lined the sidewalk in an organized chaos. They congregated around a small garden, sat near the door, or guarded the mailbox. There had to be at least forty of them.
"What the actual fuck, Oliver," Allen mused to himself going down the walkway.
"What, you don't like them?"
Allen turned around and saw Oliver leaning out his window. He was tending to the windowsill garden that kept tulips, lilies, and even some daisies in it.
The man before him looked as if he had just wrestled his way out of the Easter Bunny's closet. His collared shirt was an ivory white and his sweater vest was a dark pink. He wore a sparkly blue bow tie that matched his eyes. His hair was strawberry blond and his nose was littered with freckles.
What a freak.
"It's so nice out," Oliver said when Allen didn't respond. He was right. It was so sunny and there hadn't been a cloud in the sky. He was smiling with much less exaggeration than he usually did.
Allen sighed. "Hey, Ollie."
Oliver looked up from his flowers. "What can I help you with, poppet?"
He rubbed his jaw. It still hurt. "Matt and I got into a fight."
"Hmm… I see," he leaned out of the widow and reached out to touch Allen's jaw.
Allen backed away a bit and snapped, "Don't do that," He crossed his arms and stared back at the British man. "Can I stay here for a bit or not?"
"Of course," he sang. "And please, don't spare me the details of the fight."
Oliver removed himself from the window and came to the door. He held it open and let the young man in. Allen walked in and the place smelled like a bakery. The guy seriously needed to get out of his house and open one.
Wait, scratch that.
He'd end up poisoning half of the city if he did that.
When he didn't add something disturbing to his pastries, he was actually a miraculous baker. He was great at decorating but he loved to add a twist to everything.
Oliver was quite short for how intimidating he had a tendency to be. Only those who knew him knew not to mistake the pastels for innocence. Something snapped in his brain a long time ago and he passed his twisted way down to his "siblings".
Allen wasn't as bad, really. He wasn't a sick cannibal, at least. He wasn't into the whole meat thing. He preferred to beat the living fuck out of anyone that disrespected him with a barred baseball bat.
See? Totally normal.
He adjusted his glasses and watched as Oliver walked over to close the window.
"I apologize for the mess," Mess? What mess? The place was spotless. "But please, make yourself at home, love."
Allen nodded once. "Thanks," he grunted. Of all of the places to go, this was the last he wanted to be at. Unfortunately, that stupid French asshole decided he was going to take Matt's side inn the argument and lock him out. He wasn't going to bother with axis and the Russian psycho path was out of the question.
Okay, maybe Oliver wasn't so bad. He never seemed to hold much of a grudge, even if he picked a fight today, he would offer him a cup of tea and a towel to wipe the blood up. The only problem was, it was always Allen's blood that spilled. For a small guy, he knew how to take an opponent down without a problem.
He would taunt and humiliate them in defeat, but then next moment he would offer them a place to sleep.
Fucker.
"So what happened, Allen?"
He was referring to the fight. He always seemed to love stories about fights. The more violence and blood the better.
"It started over some stupid fucking hockey game," he snapped, sitting on the couch. "I told him his game sucked and he got irritated."
"You taunted him?" Oliver looked over his shoulder a bit. Allen saw the smirk he wore.
"Yeah, I did," he admitted. "Didn't give 'im the right to whack me in the face with his hockey stick."
"Hmm…" He continued fixing up a tray of teacups. "Go on."
"Well, after he hit me I got pissed off and jumped him. It was nothing special, but we both got some good hits in. Anyhow, he told me to get the fuck out or whatever and that fuckin' Frenchie-"
"HONORI FICABILI TUDINI TATIBUS," Oliver cried.
Allen nearly pissed himself and yelped, "What the fuck, man?!"
"I'm sorry, Allen. "He turned around and held the tray up. "But does this not look perfect? It is honorable enough for the Gods!"
The tray looked adorable enough for a 6-year-old girl in a princess dress to squeal like a pig. Allen, on the other hand, was much less impressed. "What the hell did you just say?"
"Honor-ficabili-tundini-tatibus," he said. "It looks much better spelled in all caps."
Allen opened his mouth as if to say something but quickly shut it. Understanding him was like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube. There's no use and you might as well take it apart and put it back together. Okay, maybe that wasn't the greatest example.
Oliver was a great host. He fed Allen tea and offered to make a meal. Allen didn't really trust that, so he passed on his offer. He tried what he could to make him comfortable that day since he'd felt so miserable.
That was until 10 PM, when Allen heard a cry and a crash from the other room.
He leaped up and ran up the stairs and into the room. Oliver was sitting with his back to the entry. Around him had been shattered glass and what looked like sawdust.
"What…happened," Allen asked.
"Little Henry has passed away," he said solemnly.
"Who…?"
Oliver reached into the mess and carefully pulled a small ball of blood-covered fur from the wreckage. He turned to Allen and held it up to him.
It was a hamster. It had a piece of glass in it that had impaled him during the fall.
"I'm sorry, Ollie…"
"He's quite noisy at night," he said. "I was going to move him so that he wouldn't bother you, but…"
"It's alright, man, calm down." Allen watched as Oliver set his hands in his lap and stared down at the carcass.
"Want me to, uh, clean this up?"
He shook his head. "No, no," he sighed. "It's my mess." He stood up and rushed past Allen and down the hall. Allen frowned and looked back at the mess. A hamster wheel sat under the glass and saw dust. It was kind of sad, he thought. It was a big mess and it had gotten late.
"Hey, Ol," he called. "Don't worry about cleaning it up tonight. I'll just sleep on the couch."
"The couch," Oliver stepped into the hallway with blood on his hands. "Are you daft, dear boy? Heavens no, you can stay in my room." He dismissed it immediately and went into the bathroom again.
"Uh, dude, I'm so not sleeping with you," in any sense of the word.
"What," Oliver poked out again. "But it can be like a sleepover!"
Allen sighed. He was going to be persistent and it wasn't likely he was going to win. "Fine, but I'm sleeping on the floor. Got it?"
He seemed to want to complain, but in the end he nodded. "Alright then I will be in after a moment. I still need do clean up the bulk. "He ducked back into the bathroom then called, "Don't go in there. I don't need to wash any more blood."
Yeah, okay, Allen thought and went into the other room. He found some extra blankets and laid them on the floor, then found a pillow. He made his bed and put his sunglasses from the top of his head onto the dresser. He removed his jacket and belt before lying on the makeshift bed.
Oliver must have had a set of night cloths with him because he was no longer in his normal attire, but in one of those collared two pieced pajama suites. He looked drowsy, and Allen felt that. He leaned back and said, "I'm ready to turn in."
Oliver grinned and nodded, agreeing.
The night was silent once the lights were off and covers were over each of the boys' heads. Allen slowly drifted off and his world became black.
Suddenly, there was a great amount of warmth on his side.
"Oliver," he groaned.
"Hmmmmm?"
"What the fuck are you-"
"Swear jar."
Allen growled. "Why are you down here?"
"It's more comfortable," he said.
"More comfortable than your bed?"
"Yes."
Allen groaned. He was so fed up with this guy. He constantly irritated him, got in his space, and made him so uncomfortable with that smile of his. His goal in life was to rip that smile from the creep's face. That didn't count when Oliver had an emotional breakdown.
"Oliver, you're pissing me off," he snapped.
"Swear jar."
"Wha- pissing isn't a swear word, you moron!"
"Is too."
"Is not!"
"Is too," he said and looked over his shoulder at Allen. Sure enough, that wicked grin was on his face.
That's it. Allen cringed and threw his weight towards Oliver. He knew what was going to happen next and he immediately slammed the smaller man's wrists on the floor, pinning them. In one hand, Oliver had a knife.
He stared down at the Englishman feeling satisfied. He'd done it. He had FINALLY gotten the upper hand on this guy. It was so rare and he was buzzing with joy. He quickly composed himself though, seeing Oliver still smiling that ominous smile of his.
"My, my, my, Allen," Oliver cooed. "You've got me pinned." He wriggled and yanked at his wrists, but the American had all of his weight there, holding the dangerous little terror. Allen had wrapped his legs around his waist to keep himself from being kicked. Oliver was completely trapped.
The only problem with submission attacks was that unless the victim got tuckered out from struggling, the attacker was at a stand still, especially if said victim had a blade in his hand.
Allen's realization hit him and he gritted his teeth. Now what? I have the fucker pinned… but I can't move without getting stabbed.
Oliver was swift and if he got the upper hand at any time, he'd win.
"You didn't really think this through, did you?"
"Shut up, Brit!"
"Typical American," he teased.
"I said shut up," Allen growled and head-butted Oliver.
He gave a yelp in surprise and winced. "That hurt!"
"It wasn't supposed to tickle," Allen yelled.
From the other rom, a presence made it's way through the house, looking around. The person heard the conversation and blinked. From a distance he heard the two struggling and make sounds like gasps and pants.
He ventured towards the room and stopped at the door. Looking down, he saw Oliver tangled under Allen.
It looked wrong.
Very wrong.
"Uh, Allen?"
The American yelled out in surprise and threw himself away from Oliver, who was also a bit startled.
"Mattie," Oliver chirped gleefully. "What are you doing here?"
"Came to get him," he said, gesturing to Allen.
"Who says I wanna go back with you," Allen snapped, still a bit off guard.
"Cos we have things to do tomorrow, dumbass," the Canadian said deadpan.
"Swear jar."
Matt gave Oliver a stern look, which was returned with a big smile. He shook his head. "Look, just finish whatever you idiots were doing and come on."
Allen sighed and got up. "Yeah, yeah."
Matt turned to leave, then stopped and said, "Oliver, why is there a dead hamster in your freezer?"
"You were in the freezer?"
"YOU PUT THE HAMSTER IN THE FREEZER?! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, DUDE?!"
"Swear jar!" At this point Allen was going to owe Oliver three months worth of pay.
Matt stared at the two then shook his head again. "You know what, I don't wanna know." He walked down the hallway. "C'mon, Freedom boy."
Allen raised a brow. "Ya know, I love how he just walks in here at two in the morning like he owns the place, invades your kitchen, and then breaks a fight up with one word."
"You see," Oliver said cheerfully. "That's why we love Mattie."
Allen rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Night, Ollie," he said and walked out.