Love, Labour, and Loathing
George was suffering.
He had been working in the fields for an hour, and he was already convinced that this was how he would die.
The sun was too bright. The air was too thick. His hands were aching. His back felt like it was seconds from giving out. He was drenched in sweat, his perfectly tailored clothes sticking to him in ways that were frankly undignified.
And worst of all—
“Come on, Georgie,” Dream teased, tossing three hay bales onto the cart like they weighed nothing. “I thought you said you were civilized. Can’t even lift a little hay?”
George, who had been struggling to lift even one bale, glared at him, gasping for breath as he wiped his sweat-slicked brow with a trembling hand.
“This is beneath me,” he said, nearly wheezing.
Dream grinned. “Yeah, the hay is literally beneath you.”
George narrowed his eyes. “I will kill you.”
Dream snickered, looking him up and down with a smirk. “You’d have to actually stand up first.”
Wilbur sighed dramatically from where he was stacking hay. “Ah, love and hatred, two sides of the same coin.”
George turned to him, appalled. “I do not love him.”
Dream made a mockingly wounded expression, clutching his chest. “Ouch.”
Wilbur ignored them, staring off into the distance with a mournful sigh so deep it seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. Dream nudged Techno. “Here we go again.”
George, still gasping for air and thoroughly exasperated, raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Wilbur placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of tragic melancholy. “Sally…” he whispered, as though saying her name alone was an act of devotion.
George blinked, his exhaustion temporarily forgotten. “Who?”
Wilbur let out another sigh, the kind one might expect from a grieving poet standing at the edge of a storm-tossed cliff. “My beloved. My heart. My dearest Sally,” he proclaimed, voice thick with woe, as though he had written sonnets in her name and suffered greatly for it.
George choked. “I—what?”
Wilbur turned to him, dead serious. “She is the love of my life.”
George looked at Dream and Techno for confirmation.
Techno, stacking hay in perfect silence, simply nodded.
Dream grinned. “They were very happy together. Until she left him.”
George blinked. “I—she left?”
Wilbur clenched a fist, his eyes dark with longing. “She returned to the south… where I can never follow.”
George opened his mouth. Then closed it. Surely there was some dire meaning behind those words—some tragic, insurmountable force keeping them apart. A family feud? A wretched illness? A vow of duty and honor?
Techno, deadpan, stacked another hay bale. “She goes to prep class down south every summer.”
George reeled. “I—what?”
Dream threw his head back, laughing. “I think you broke him.”
George rubbed his temples, feeling as though the world had shifted beneath his feet. He had braced for some grand tragedy—some heart-wrenching tale of love and sacrifice—only to learn that Wilbur’s ‘lost love’ was merely attending a slightly distant school..for a couple of weeks
Wilbur, utterly unfazed, placed a dramatic hand on George’s shoulder. “If you ever find love, George, hold onto it. Or you, too, shall know the sorrow… of a love lost to the waves.”
George, overwhelmed, barely managed a strangled, “I need to lie down.”
By the time Phil called them in for supper, George was barely standing.
His arms ached. His legs burned. His face felt hot. His dignity was in ruins. Every muscle in his body screamed in betrayal. He had never known such suffering. He had been abandoned by Prime. His ancestors were surely weeping.
And worst of all—
Dream, perfectly fine, was grinning at him.
"Aw, poor Georgie," Dream teased, reaching out to prod George’s very sunburnt cheek. "You look like a tomato."
George recoiled as though burned anew, a strangled noise escaping his throat. "Do not touch me! Are you mad?! My skin is in ruins! I have been cooked alive! I am practically shedding!"
Dream chuckled, entirely too amused by his suffering. "I don’t think you’re cut out for this whole ‘manual labor’ thing."
George scowled, wobbling on unsteady legs. "I am cut out for better things."
Wilbur, wiping sweat from his brow with unnecessary flourish, sighed dramatically. "Dream, you wouldn’t understand. George and I—we are delicate souls. We are poets, not peasants."
George nodded weakly, clutching his arms as though every breath was agony. "Exactly. My skin was made for the gentle London fog, not—this."
Dream just shook his head. "You two are unbelievable."
Wilbur, dramatically wiping his brow, sighed. “You wouldn’t understand, Dream. George and I are poets. We are not meant for manual labor.”
George nodded. “Exactly.”
Dream snorted. “Yeah? And what kind of poetry did you write today?”
Wilbur, looking deeply offended, pulled a folded letter from his pocket.
“This,” he declared, “is from my beloved.”
George, intrigued, leaned closer. “Oh?”
Wilbur held it to his chest like a treasure. “Her name is Sally. She is beautiful. She is brilliant. And she writes to me every day.”
Dream rolled his eyes. “She’s in prep school. Not war.”
Wilbur ignored him. “She says she misses me.”
Dream groaned. “She says that every letter.”
Wilbur beamed. “Because it’s true.”
George, wiping sweat from his forehead, sighed. “I’d rather be in a prep school than a field.”
Dream grinned. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
George scowled. “I lasted today, didn’t I?”
Dream chuckled. “Barely.”
George was about to retort when Phil called, “Dinner’s ready, boys!”
Before George could even sigh in relief, Phil was suddenly in front of him, frowning at his sunburnt face. "Oof, mate, you’re looking a bit crisp there."
George groaned. "I feel like I’ve been broiled alive."
Phil nodded sympathetically before disappearing into the house, returning moments later with a small tin of something ominously thick and vaguely green. "Here, put this on. Made it myself."
George took one sniff and recoiled in horror. "Oh, it smells like a corpse has been marinated in vinegar!"
Phil chuckled. "That means it’s working."
George gave him an utterly betrayed look, but under Phil’s expectant gaze, he hesitantly dabbed a little onto his cheek. It was sticky. It was pungent. It was revolting.
"It feels like I’ve just coated myself in honey and regret."
"You’ll thank me in the morning," Phil said cheerfully, giving him a hearty pat on the back before heading inside.
And so, utterly exhausted, reeking of homemade remedies and despair, George followed the others inside, dragging his feet like a war veteran returning from battle.
The house smelled like something warm and rich.
Phil set a huge pot of stew on the table, steam rising from it.
George sat down, eyeing the food with deep suspicion.
It looked… rustic.
Primitive.
Potentially dangerous.
Phil, noticing his hesitation, smiled. “You’ll like it. I promise.”
George, doubtful, picked up his spoon.
But before he could eat—
Phil cleared his throat.
The boys all bowed their heads.
George, confused, looked around. "What—"
Phil smiled. "We say grace before meals."
George froze.
Say grace?
His stomach twisted. He had avoided sitting down for meals for this very reason. Back home, his family never bothered with grace—dinners quiet, quick, no one bothered to thank anyone for their meal. He had figured he could get by here without anyone noticing he never joined in, but now, with Phil looking at him expectantly and everyone else bowing their heads, he realized he had no choice.
The silence stretched. George swallowed, heat creeping up his neck. His fingers twitched in his lap. Was he supposed to say something? Do something? Was there a script?
Slowly, stiffly, he bowed his head, feeling like a fraud, an imposter in someone else’s sacred moment.
Phil’s voice was warm as he spoke. "thank you prime for the meal before us, let this food replenish our bodies, and nourish our souls, and bless the hands that prepared it. Amen"
And for the first time that day, George felt a little bit of peace.
Even if the stew was primitive.?
"Alright lad's dig in!"
George lifted the spoon with great hesitation, eyeing the thick, lumpy stew as if it were a live beast that might leap at him. The texture alone sent a shudder down his spine—unfamiliar, unsettling, too many things at once. It was viscous yet chunky, aromatic yet overwhelming. He couldn't quite place the spices, which unsettled him further. Food was supposed to be predictable.
Slowly, he took a bite.
The taste was an assault.
Rich, earthy, bizarrely complex—too much. There was a sweetness, but not the kind he was used to. Something tangy, something vaguely smoky, and an unexpected peppery kick at the end that made his throat burn just enough to be offensive. It was everything at once and nothing familiar. His mouth was confused. His brain was horrified. This wasn’t food—it was an experience, and not one he wanted to have.
He forced himself to chew, his noble upbringing the only thing keeping him from gagging outright. He swallowed like a man resigned to death. Tommy was already on his third helping. George, meanwhile, sat frozen, spoon still in hand, debating the life choices that had brought him here.
Phil beamed at him. "Good, yeah?"
George swallowed hard, his throat rebelling against the thick stew. "It’s… certainly something." He cleared his throat, forcing himself to nod. "A very… robust flavor profile."
Phil chuckled, nudging George’s bowl slightly closer. "Glad you like it. Go on, finish it up."
George stared at the remaining stew as if it were a personal enemy. His spoon hovered over the bowl, his willpower waning. This was it. This was how he died—at the hands of a well-meaning farmer and a cursed bowl of peasant sludge.