The taste of nature
The sun was merciless, beating down on him like some vengeful prime exacting punishment. The work was endless, an unrelenting cycle of toil that made time stretch into an eternity. The suffering? Unmatched. Operatic in scale.
George, once again, wanted to die. Or at the very least, collapse theatrically in the field and let the cows mourn him.
Wilbur, dramatic as ever, announced, “I must send a letter to my beloved.”
George, sensing an opportunity, quickly grabbed his own letter.
“Yes, excellent. I, too, have urgent correspondence to send.”
Techno raised an eyebrow. “Whining to your parents?”
George glared. “It is a detailed report of my suffering.”
Wilbur ignored them both, already marching off toward town.
George scrambled after him, determined to escape the farm’s relentless demands, if only for an hour.
The post office was smaller than George expected, and much dustier. It smelled of old paper, ink, and something vaguely floral, which he suspected was meant to cover the musty scent but was failing spectacularly.
Wilbur strolled in like he owned the place, throwing his letter onto the counter with a flourish. “Dearest postmaster, I entrust you with the most sacred of tasks: delivering these words to my love.”
The elderly postmaster, a stoic man with spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, did not even look up as he picked up Wilbur’s letter and sorted it into a wooden slot. “That’ll be two pence.”
Wilbur gasped, clutching his chest. “Two pence?! Highway robbery! My heart bleeds at this injustice!”
“Wilbur we do this every day. pay” the postmaster said dryly.
Wilbur sighed dramatically and fished out two coins, placing them on the counter as if it physically pained him.
George stepped forward, more hesitantly. “I also require your services,” he announced, placing his letter down.
The postmaster barely looked at it. “Same fee.”
George blinked. “You require payment?”
Wilbur turned to him with an incredulous look. “What, did you think the postman runs on the sheer joy of delivering your grievances?”
George hesitated. “I assumed it was simply… handled.”
Wilbur snorted. “Handled? By what, Prime intervention?”
“I don’t know! In London, one simply posts a letter!”
The postmaster sighed. “And someone pays for it.”
George was affronted. “I have never once paid for a letter in my life.”
Wilbur clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, to be raised in such privilege.”
George crossed his arms. “It is not privilege, it is efficiency.”
“No, it is absolutely privilege.”
George scowled but fished out the required coins, slapping them onto the counter.
As they exited the post office, Wilbur let out a wistful sigh. “Ah, correspondence. The poetry of the written word. There is something so romantic about it.”
George shot him a look. “You wrote a single sentence on that letter. I saw it.”
Wilbur huffed. “That single sentence contained the weight of a thousand emotions.”
George rolled his eyes. “It said, ‘Hello dearest, hope you’re well, pigs are fine.’”
“Exactly. Depth beyond measure.”
George sighed. “I loathe you.”
Wilbur grinned, linking arms with him. “And yet, here we are, bonded forever by our suffering.”
By the time they returned, the farm had descended into chaos.
Dream and Techno were fighting.
Not an actual fight. A play fight.
Dream swung at Techno. Techno dodged. Dream laughed.
Then Techno tackled him.
Dream yelled, face hitting the dirt.
Tommy and Tubbo, not wanting to be left out, immediately started their own play fight.
Which, in Tommy’s case, meant grabbing Tubbo and rolling them both into the nearest haystack.
By the time Wilbur and George came back, everyone was covered in dirt.
Including George, despite having done no fighting whatsoever.
“How—” George sputtered, looking down at his soiled sleeves. “How have I been attacked by dirt without even engaging in combat?!”
Techno shrugged. “The farm chooses its victims.”
Phil arrived moments later. Carrot on a stick in hand.
“Here, lads,” he said, like this was normal. “Thought you might be hungry.”
George, stunned, watched as everyone happily bit into their raw carrots.
Like horses.
He made a mental note.
These people need artificial sweeteners immediately.
The crunching was deafening. Uncivilized. George could hardly believe what he was witnessing—children. and teenagers. gnawing on vegetables straight from the earth as though it was perfectly normal. He hesitated, eyeing the carrot Phil had handed him like it was an alien object. It had dirt on it. He swore it did.
“Go on,” Phil encouraged, nodding toward the carrot. “It won’t kill ya.”
George turned it over in his hand, aghast. “Is there… anything on it?”
Wilbur, mid-chew, raised a brow. “Yes, George. It’s called ‘carrot.’”
“Very funny.” George gingerly wiped the vegetable against his sleeve. “No butter? No seasoning?”
Wilbur snorted. “You season your carrots?”
George’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean, do I—Of course I do! They go in a roast! They’re glazed! They are not—” He gestured wildly at Wilbur’s half-eaten carrot. “This!”
Techno, unfazed, took another loud bite. “Tastes fine to me.”
George looked to Phil for support. Surely, a responsible adult would intervene and put a stop to this madness.
Phil only grinned. “Fresh out of the ground’s best way to have ‘em. Most vitamins that way.”
George’s soul left his body.
Wilbur slung an arm around his shoulder. “Welcome to the simple life, mate.”
George stared at the carrot in his hand like it had personally wronged him. He had eaten caviar in London. Truffles. Delicacies prepared by chefs whose entire careers revolved around elevating the dining experience.
And here he was, in a field, holding a raw carrot like some sort of peasant.
His stomach growled.
He groaned, utterly defeated.
Wilbur smirked. “That’s the spirit.”
“You stink.”
George whipped around.
Dream was looking at him, arms crossed, smirking.
George’s eye twitched. “I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
George was about to argue, but then—
Oh.
Oh no.
He sniffed his sleeve.
Oh no.
His face went scarlet. Humiliation clawed up his spine like a feral animal. He stiffened, his lips pressing into a tight line as his brain desperately scrambled for some way—any way—to refute this horrible, undeniable truth.
Dream was still grinning, clearly enjoying his suffering. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
George wanted to sink into the earth and never be perceived again. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that alone could erase the sheer disgrace of the moment. “I—” He cleared his throat, struggling to regain some shred of dignity. “It has been…a long week.”
“A long, unwashed week,” Dream corrected smugly.
George’s entire body burned. He turned away sharply, hands flying to his face, trying to physically shield himself from the sheer weight of his embarrassment. “I don’t smell that bad.”
Dream took a step closer, inhaled dramatically, and recoiled like he’d been struck. “Holy shit, George. That’s worse than the horses.”
George wanted to die. He wanted to evaporate. He wanted to be back in London, with his fine soaps and warm showers and not a single judgmental farm boy smirking at him like he was some filthy street urchin.
He curled in on himself, hiding his face in his hands. “Oh my Prime,” he whispered, utterly defeated.
And yet, he was here. Stinking. Inescapably, embarrassingly stinking. And worst of all?
Everyone else had probably noticed, too.
The moment they got home, it happened.
Wilbur, Techno, Tommy, and even Phil teamed up against him.
George fought. Desperately. Valiantly. Like a man facing his last battle.
He kicked. He screamed. He flailed like a drowning man, hands grasping at anything that could save him from this horrifying fate.
"UNHAND ME, YOU VILE PEASANTS!" he shrieked, digging his heels into the dirt as they dragged him towards his doom.
Wilbur snickered. Tommy cackled. Techno remained a silent, immovable force of nature. Even Phil, his last hope, his supposed guardian, was against him.
"Phil, PLEASE!" George gasped. "You must write to my father at once! Tell him these savages have turned on me!"
Phil just sighed, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "C'mon, mate. It's for your own good."
George wailed in betrayal.
But he was no match for four determined country boys and their evil father.
They dragged him inside.
To the bath.
George begged. He pleaded. He grasped onto the doorframe like a man condemned, his nails scraping against the wood in sheer desperation.
“PLEASE, NO—HAVE MERCY! I’LL DO ANYTHING!”
Too late.
They pried his fingers off one by one and hauled him forward, ignoring his increasingly dramatic protests.
The bath stood there like an executioner’s block—old, metal, and filled to the brim with frigid, well-drawn water.
He was dumped in unceremoniously, and the moment his skin met the icy surface, George’s soul left his body.
A piercing, undignified shriek ripped through the house, startling the birds outside into flight.
“THIS IS CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT!” George flailed, sending waves sloshing over the rim. "I AM A GENTLEMAN, NOT A GREASED PIG!"
Phil, unimpressed, dropped a heavy bar of farm-made soap onto his lap.
"Scrub up, mate. Or I'll assist."
George stared at it like it was a foreign artifact, something crude and unrefined compared to the delicate, vanilla-scented soaps he was used to. Slowly, with great hesitation, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was rough, uneven, and had an odd, earthy smell—like someone had mashed grass and regret into a solid form.
He swallowed hard. "This... this is soap?"
Phil arched an eyebrow. "Yes, George. It is."
George wrinkled his nose, his lips pressing into a tight line. He could already feel his skin protesting. He took a deep breath and—ever so slowly—pressed the bar against his arm, rubbing experimentally. A pathetic amount of lather formed, but mostly, it just felt like he was scraping his skin raw.
He shuddered. "This is barbaric."
Phil sighed. "Do you need me to—"
"NO!" George yelped, curling protectively around himself. "I am perfectly capable, thank you very much."
Phil smirked. "Then get to it, mate. You're still stinkier than the pigs."
George barely had time to glare before Phil rolled up his sleeves and reached for the rag. "Alright then, guess I'll help."
George's eyes went wide with horror. "No—NO, I CAN—"
Too late. Phil’s hands were firm but unceremonious, scrubbing at his arms with the brutal efficiency of a man who had bathed far too many unwilling children in his time. The rag was rough, the homemade soap clung like tar, and every scrape of fabric against his sunburnt skin felt like divine retribution.
George gasped sharply, recoiling. "OW—Phil! That is my skin, not a filthy dish!"
Phil ignored him, working methodically, as if purifying him of his city-boy sins. "Hold still."
"This is TORTURE!" George wailed, trying to twist away. "I AM A GENTLEMAN! I HAVE DELICATE SKIN!"
Phil snorted. "You have filth. Now stop wriggling."
George wanted to die. He wanted to scream. He wanted to—
Phil reached for his face.
George practically climbed out of the bath in protest. "NOT THE FACE!"
Phil just shook his head. "Prime save me, lad. You’re worse than Tommy."
George shivered violently, teeth chattering as he hugged himself, his pride in shambles. This was the worst day of his life.
“This is barbaric,” he whispered, traumatized.
Phil patted his shoulder with an infuriating amount of amusement. “Welcome to the farm, mate.”
Ice-cold water poured over him.
George shrieked.
Phil reached down, gripping George's arm with the same unyielding strength he'd used throughout the entire miserable ordeal. With minimal effort, he hoisted him out of the bath, completely ignoring George's shivering protests. The cold air hit like a slap, and before he could so much as take a step, Phil was already wrapping him in a thick, slightly scratchy towel.
George flinched at the rough fabric, yanking it tighter around himself with a grumble of pure suffering. He was wet, he was cold, and worst of all, he was clean. Every inch of him felt raw, scrubbed within an inch of his life, and his dignity was in absolute ruins.
Phil, utterly unaffected by George’s theatrics, began drying his hair with far too much efficiency, ruffling it like he would a stubborn child. George swatted at his hands weakly, but Phil didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a mountain with sheer willpower alone.
Once Phil deemed him sufficiently dried, he stepped back, giving George an approving nod, as if he’d just completed some great trial. George, in turn, scowled, pulling the towel tighter around himself like a wounded animal.
He sniffed. Sulked. Pouted.
Phil just chuckled, utterly unsympathetic. "Come on, lad. It wasn’t that bad."
George glared daggers at him. "I am filing a formal complaint."
Phil clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward his clothes. "You do that, mate. Now get dressed."
George sighed heavily, dragging himself away, radiating the unmistakable aura of a man wronged by the world itself.