Over the Garden Wall

Chapter 1

"Fuck," Harry mutters under his breath as another yell crashes in from outside.

He checks the clock. 22:28. He rolls his eyes and clenches his fists. If those neighbors make another sound, he's going to go out there. It's late, and tomorrow is his daughter's first day of primary school and his son's first day of year 2. They need their rest.

He stretches on the couch and tries to control his breathing. It's fine. He doesn't need to get so stressed. What was that thing his mum showed him when he was a kid and he was angry? He thinks for a minute. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste. Sounds easy enough.

He can see his telly playing the football game, the fireplace underneath it, the bookshelf in the corner filled with all the books he buys but never has time to read, the white and grey cat (that he didn't want but is incredibly attached to) on the back of the couch he's laying on, and the cabinet on the other side of the fireplace that's filled with romantic comedy DVDs that he didn't buy but he puts on on cold nights when he's feeling particularly lonely.

He can feel the soft couch beneath him and the cushions pressed in by his body weight, the sweat beading on his face and neck from cleaning the house and doing the washing a few minutes ago (before he laid down to relax for the night), the breeze from the fan blowing in his face in an attempt to cool himself down, and the pressure of the aforementioned cat having jumped down from the couch to curl up on his chest, nuzzling into Harry's face.

He can hear the sound of the washing machine spinning the clothes he just put into it from the kitchen, the commentators describing the game ("England takes the ball from Italy and makes their way down the pitch. They're going, going... OH! Italy intercepts it! England tries to catch up, but they're too far behind! Italy kicks and... right into the goal! Is England even trying?"), and a bout of angry yelling timed exactly to the moment Italy made the goal making its way into the house.

That's it, I'm going out there, he thinks as he makes no moves to walk out the door.

It's not that he's shy or anything. He just doesn't want to speak up if he doesn't have to. Especially not to them. Not again. Maybe that was the last yell and he won't have to do anything about it now.

He watches the game for a little while longer while hoping against hope that nothing interesting will happen. The opposing team moves towards their goal and Harry massages his temples psyching himself up for the storm of hellfire about to erupt from the house next door.

A new yell accompanied by a chorus of "fuck"s gets Harry moving. He opens his back door and marches to the fence.

"Hey! I've got two little kids sleeping in here. They have school tomorrow. Could you PLEASE keep it down??" Harry shouts.

He takes in the scene in front of him. There are three men scattered around the backyard but all facing a telly behind an open window. One of them has a golf club that he's using to hit a golf ball around on the ground. The other two of them are lounging on an outdoor couch with lit cigarettes in their hands, one of the men with short powder blue hair shaved close to the scalp, and the other with long brown hair that's curling around his shoulders.

They all snap their heads to look at him. The one with brown hair stands up and slowly walks to the fence resting his arms on it and getting in Harry's face.

"Now, now, Harry, there's no need to be rude. We were just having a good time," he replies calmly and slowly. "You could join us if you want."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Louis, don't be fucking ridiculous. I have children that are asleep and I'm not leaving them alone for any longer than this. You and I don't get along anyway. Why would I want to come over?"