No More Moping
George woke up to the unsettling sight of Phil looming over his bed, backlit by the dim morning light like some kind of divine executioner. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. "What—?" he gasped, scrambling upright, sheets tangled around him. "Why? What? OI!" Was this it? Had he finally committed some unpardonable social sin that warranted immediate exile? Or worse—early morning confrontation?
He barely had time to flinch before Phil clapped his hands together and said, “Alright, lad. You’re done moping. Get dressed.”
George blinked blearily. "What—?" he croaked, voice still thick with sleep.
Phil yanked the covers off him in one swift motion.
George shrieked. "I beg your pardon—! Have you lost your mind? That is completely uncalled for!" He scrambled back, clutching at his nightshirt as though his dignity itself had been stripped away. "Good heavens, a moment to wake properly, at the very least!" His hands were still gripping the fabric as though Phil might very well tear that away too, given the barbaric nature of this household.
“You’re helping in the fields today.”
George froze.
Surely, he had misheard.
“Pardon?” he said faintly, like a man being told he had to walk the gallows at dawn.
Phil grinned. “You heard me.”
George had thought he had suffered before.
He had not.
Because this—this was true suffering.
The heat was unbearable. The air was thick with dust. His boots were too big. His back ached. His shirt stuck to his skin in the most undignified manner possible. And he'd barely even arrived in the feild.
And to make matters worse—
“Oh, look,” a taunting voice drawled. “The city boy’s gonna cry.”
George whipped around.
And there he was.
Tall. Sun-kissed. Smug.
Dream.
George hated him immediately.
“I am not going to cry,” George snapped, wiping sweat from his forehead as if wiping away the insult itself.
Dream smirked. “Good.”
Then, with a smirk that could only mean trouble, Dream tossed something at him.
George caught it on instinct, feeling the rough wooden handle slap against his palms. It was heavy, unfamiliar, and distinctly unpleasant to hold.
It was a pitchfork.
George stared at it in horror, his mind momentarily unable to process what had just occurred. Surely, this was some kind of joke. A test of his dignity.
Dream crossed his arms. "You know how to use that, right?"
George exhaled sharply through his nose, trying and failing to maintain his composure. "I beg your pardon?"
Dream’s smirk widened. "Go on, then. Get to work."
George turned the pitchfork over in his hands like it was an alien artifact, his face contorting with sheer disbelief. He had held many things in his life—a finely crafted fountain pen, a glass of the finest wine, the occasional silk handkerchief. But never, in all his years, had he ever touched something so offensively rustic.
He turned to Dream, voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. "You cannot be serious."
Dream clapped him on the shoulder. "Dead serious."
George stared at it in horror.
“What,” he said slowly, enunciating every syllable, “do you expect me to do with this?”
Dream raised an eyebrow. “Help.”
George looked at the massive field ahead.
Then back at Dream.
Then back at the field.
“Absolutely not.”
Dream’s smirk widened. “Guess you’ll just stand there while Tommy and Tubbo get more done than you.”
George turned.
Tommy and Tubbo were chasing each other through the fields, screaming.
They were not working.
He turned back to Dream, glaring. "They're playing."
Dream shrugged. "They're kids."
George scoffed. "And I am a civilized person."
Dream smirked, slow and taunting. "Oh, of course. A delicate, fragile little lord like you wouldn't dare sully his hands with common labor. My mistake."
George bristled. "I am not fragile."
"No, no, of course not," Dream said, all mock sincerity. "You’re just—what’s the word?—refined. Pristine. Like a dainty little porcelain doll that might just shatter if the wind blows too hard."
George’s nostrils flared. "I will have you know—"
Dream leaned in, all infuriatingly casual. "Go on, then. Show me how 'civilized' you are when Phil finds out you did nothing all day. See how that plays out. Should be fun."
George opened his mouth to argue—
Then he saw Phil in the distance.
Watching. Keeping an eye on them. Not in a scrutinizing, judgmental way—no, that would almost be easier. Instead, Phil had that infuriatingly patient, encouraging look, like he truly believed George was capable. Like he actually wanted him to succeed here.
George hated him already.
Because it meant Phil didn't think he was helpless. It meant he expected George to adapt. To try. And if George failed—if he floundered and made a fool of himself—then what? Would Phil’s kindness turn to pity? Would his father hear of it and shake his head, confirming what he had always suspected? That George was utterly, hopelessly useless?
Or worse—what if he succeeded? What if Phil, with all his kindness and patience, actually made him belong here? That thought was even more unbearable.
George swallowed.
Then, with the deepest sigh known to man, he hoisted the pitchfork over his shoulder.
Dream grinned, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world to watch George suffer.
George hated him.
And then Dream leaned in, close enough that George could see the mischief dancing in his eyes, could feel the warmth radiating from his sun-kissed skin. "Careful now," Dream murmured, voice dipping into something almost teasing. "Wouldn’t want those delicate hands of yours to get too rough. Might ruin the whole fragile little lord aesthetic."
George’s breath caught. He scowled fiercely, willing away the humiliating heat creeping up his neck. "I am not fragile," he hissed.
Dream tilted his head, considering him in a way that made George feel entirely too seen. "Oh?" he mused. "Guess we’ll see about that."
George gripped the pitchfork tighter, swallowing the indignation rising in his throat.
And maybe, just maybe, Dream enjoyed this a little too much.