Talent Is Subjective || Camp Camp Fanfiction ||

Chapter 4: Ayo, Let Your Father Know (Part I)

David paced around the counselors' cabin, walking back and forth and chewing on his nails— well, at this point, he was kind of just biting his fingers in agitation. Somehow he managed to gnaw his nails' tips off and was now just mindlessly chewing on the fist he had stuffed into his mouth. Gwen stared at him, sitting on his bed and unsure how to start this off. Mainly because David was impossible to talk to when he gets like this.

Right... well, how do you start off a conversation with your co-worker when they're on the verge of a breakdown? Shit, she didn't know. This was David's thing— and she swears that if anyone brings up how she should know because she has a psychology major... fuck that. Getting a psychology major only made her less of a sociopath than before.

Well, maybe she'll ask how it went.

(It obviously didn't go well if he's acting like this.)

"Uh..." She cleared her throat, surprised at how dry it suddenly felt. He looked at her desperately, eyes a bit shiny in the dark. Oh yeah, because it's nighttime and the only light in the room was coming from the window. "...so. Did it—Did it go well?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid! She twisted her wrist in the sheets, one ankle bouncing on the floor in agitation. That wasn't very... man, she's shit at this talking thing.

(And that, kids, is why college is a waste of time. Get a major in talking to people, and you end up more confused than before.)

(But, then again, not going to college wouldn't get her this job in the first place.)

(...too bad she's probably going to lose that soon. Shit.)

"He's— oh, gosh, Gwen—" David wrapped his hair strands between his fingers, looking away from her but eyes darting between the window, the door, and his own bed. She imagines he's trying to pick between nose-diving out the window, crashing out through the door, and falling head-first into the bed. But, of course, he couldn't do any of that because he was on the verge of a breakdown, and she has to help him with that, and Jesus Christ, she's gotten way too worked up over this... "He doesn't want to do it! H-How're we going to— gosh —he's going to spend his money on gambling, and not the camp? But why!?"

"...are you more concerned about the fact that he's gambling or the fact that he's not going to pay our funds?" She scrutinizes his face as he flaps his hands, feet bounding back and forth into that repetitive pattern again. "—Or the fact that he chose gambling over the camp...?"

"Gambling in itself isn't a good thing, Gwen," He exclaimed, keeling his arms and then bringing himself back into the familiar self-hug, chewing on his thumb-nail and blinking his eyes. "But he's not going to pay anything just because he's going to— t-to... I don't know, toss cards onto a table? I don't have an idea about how it works, but—"

He groaned, rubbing his face, and Gwen abruptly stood up, getting ready to give him some extra moral support. Or even— she blanched, making sure he didn't see her face —to give him a hug.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders, bringing them back behind him. She watches him rock a bit on the balls of his feet, and then take another deep breath. He turns to her, face half-unreadable, half-scrunched-up-and-trying-not-to-cry.

"Right, then, Gwen," He manages a weak smile, clapping his hands together (How does he even do that? He literally just came back from an argument with his childhood idol about how Campbell isn't going to pay for camp.) "It's night-time. I need to sleep. You need to sleep. How about I just... go to my cabin, and we talk about this in the morning...?"