The Evening Routine (or, More Like a Torture Session for George)
By the time they trudged back to the house, George was half-dead.
His arms were jelly. His legs were shaking. He was covered in dirt.
And worst of all?
He knew—he knew—that dinner was going to be another bowl of primitive peasant stew.
As expected, the table was set with steaming bowls of stew.
Phil, cheerful as ever, clapped his hands. "Alright, let's say grace!!"
Everyone at the table bowed their heads. George hesitated, glancing around as if searching for an escape. This was not a part of his usual dining routine in London—he supposed they really did do this every night-
Phil cleared his throat and began, his voice warm and steady. "Great Prime, we thank you for the food before us, the hands that made it, and the strength it gives us. May we be fair, kind, and forgiving."
"Amen," the others chorused in response.
George mumbled something incoherent, more out of social obligation than belief. He peeked up to find Wilbur with a knowing smirk, Tommy barely restraining giggles, and Techno looking as unreadable as ever.
Phil gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, beaming. "See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?"
George, who was positively mortified, did not respond.
George stared at his bowl. Then stared harder. Then grimaced, nostrils flaring like a man facing impending doom.
It had chunks. Unidentifiable chunks. Floating ominously in a thick, murky broth that smelled of at least seven conflicting ingredients, none of which were recognizable. Some were soft, others suspiciously chewy, and one of them—dear Prime above—one of them had a gelatinous wobble.
His stomach churned. He swallowed thickly.
This was a personal attack.
He prodded at it miserably.
Phil, sitting at the head of the table, eyed him. “Eat up, mate.”
George sighed. “I’m not hungry.”
Phil gave him a look. “You barely ate breakfast. And you worked all day.”
“Yes,” George said, dramatically. “Which is why I have lost my will to live.”
Phil just raised an eyebrow. "Eat."
George hesitated.
Phil’s tone was gentle, but firm. But now, as if sensing the depths of George’s misery, he reached for the breadbasket and plucked out a warm, brown slice, thick with nuts. "Here," he said, setting it beside George’s bowl. "Might help."
George blinked at the offering, taken aback. He looked up at Phil, who merely gave him a small, encouraging nod. There was no judgment, no expectation—just quiet kindness.
George sighed, dramatically. He picked up the bread, tore off a piece, and dunked it into the stew. Maybe, just maybe, it would make it more tolerable.
George huffed. Picked up his spoon. Took a bite.
…It wasn’t bad.
Not good, obviously. But not…inedible.
Which was an issue. Because if it wasn’t inedible, that meant he could keep eating it. And if he kept eating it, that meant he was actively enjoying it. Which was unacceptable. He was a man of standards. He had been raised on fine London cuisine—freshly baked bread, delicate roasts, elegantly prepared soups.
Not…this.
Yet, against his better judgment, he took another bite. And another.
Phil, satisfied, went back to eating.
Wilbur was, as usual, not present.
Physically, yes. But mentally?
Absolutely not.
Instead of eating, he was furiously scribbling on a piece of paper, muttering under his breath.
Every now and then, he’d stop, dramatically sigh, and cross something out.
George eyed him. “What are you doing?”
Wilbur didn’t even glance up. “Poetry.”
“Poetry?”
“For Sally.”
George groaned. “You are insufferable.”
Wilbur just smiled.
Across the table, Techno and Tommy were locked in a silent war.
The rules were simple:
Whoever blinked first, lost.
Tommy’s eyes were wide, unblinking, his little face scrunched in determination.
Techno’s were calm, unreadable.
George watched in horror.
They hadn’t moved in minutes.
The tension was unbearable.
Tommy’s eye twitched.
George swore he saw a flicker of smugness on Techno’s face.
Then—
“GAAAH!” Tommy blinked violently, shoving Techno’s shoulder. “YOU CHEATED.”
Techno, still unreadable, took a sip of water. “Skill issue.”
Tommy fumed.
George, utterly exhausted, dropped his spoon, staring down at the remnants of his stew like they had personally betrayed him.
“I hate it here,” he muttered, voice raw with something deeper than just exhaustion.
Phil chuckled, but it wasn’t mocking—it was warm, understanding. “Welcome to the family, mate.”
George looked up at him, startled. Family. The word settled in his chest, strange and unfamiliar. He’d never thought of himself as part of something like that before. Not really. Not genuinely.
His throat tightened. He swallowed, pushing the feeling away before it could fully surface. Instead, he just sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically, and reached for his spoon again. “…great.”
Phil, ever patient, simply ruffled his hair and went back to his meal.
bonus : A Letter of Despair
The house was quiet.
Dinner had ended. Tommy had finally stopped ranting about his lost eye contest. Wilbur had sealed his letter to Sally with all the passion of a tragic poet. Techno had gone to bed without a word.
And George?
George was seething.
His hands ached. His back ached. His shoulders were tight with the humiliating strain of a day spent laboring under the sun. Dirt was still caked beneath his nails, no matter how many times he scrubbed. He could still feel the sunburn prickling on his skin, a painful reminder of his own uselessness. The others had worked circles around him, moving with the ease of people who belonged here, while he had floundered, slow and weak and so very, very out of place.
And yet—
Phil had smiled at him. Had clapped him on the back and told him he did well. Had given him the same kindness he gave to the others, unwavering, steady.
George had hated it.
He wanted Phil to be annoyed, wanted him to scowl and snap, "You were useless today," because then at least it would make sense. Then it would match the burning shame in his chest. Instead, he got gentle encouragement, patient understanding, and it made him feel like a child, like a burden. He resented it. He resented all of them.
A gentle knock on his trapdoor.
"George?"
George sighed, already annoyed. "What."
Phil’s voice was calm, patient. "Just checkin’ in, mate."
"I’m fine," George lied.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"…Alright, then. Sleep well."
The footsteps faded.
George exhaled, slumping onto his bed. His body screamed in protest, sore in ways he didn’t know were possible.
He grabbed a pen, ripped a page out of his notebook, and began writing furiously.
Dear Mother and Father,
I am suffering.
America is a lawless wasteland. There is no electricity. No running water. No civilization.
I have been forced to work in fields like some kind of medieval peasant.
The food is barbaric.
Tommy is insane. Techno is soulless. Wilbur won’t shut up about his pretentious poetry.
And worst of all—
I have met the most horrible boy.
His name is Dream.
I loathe him.
I loathe his stupid face.
I loathe his annoying attitude.
I loathe his muscles.
I loathe his—
George paused.
Crossed that last part out.
Regained his composure.
Anyway, I demand rescue. Immediately.
Yours in unbearable agony,
George
Satisfied, he folded the letter neatly.
Now he just had to figure out how on earth he was supposed to send it.