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"Jesus, Preston, you take longer to pack than /David/! And he has to clean the whole fucking camp first!" Max swung his legs up onto his cot, backpack already slung over his shoulders.
Preston was busy ushering papers into folders and carefully sliding them into his bag, trying to keep everything orderly. He zipped it shut, and turned on his heel. "I'm nearly done, I promise! I just need to grab a few of my things from the stage, and we'll be set."
Max reclined and made himself comfortable. "You better hurry up. The bus to town gets here in half an hour. If you don't pick up the pace, I'll heavily consider leaving without you."
"Don't rush me!" Preston shoved Max's shoulder gently. "I'll be quick, alright?"
And with a spring in his step, Preston was on his way to one of the most memorable places of the camp.
Behind the curtain, it was extremely dim. The only light sources were the red ones that lined the back exit and the corners of backstage. Preston was more than used to it by now.
As he looked around, he couldn't help but smile. This was his domain, for almost all of his childhood summers. He seemed to love it more now that he was leaving. How bittersweet. But as much as he appreciated the heart wrenching visual, there was no time to loiter around wistfully and teary-eyed! He had to hurry, after all.
Preston wiped his stinging eyes quickly, patting the wall and then crouching down to gather his things. It really was a mess back here.
As Preston got to work, hoarding various costumes into a bag, he heard footsteps coming up the stage stairs. Max.
He stood and brushed himself off, starting to speak before he even turned to face him, holding up a king's cape. "Oh, Max! Do you remember this? Ha, I had saved up so much money for it, I--“ Preston turned his head, and his sentence dried up in his mouth.
That was not Max.
“Yeahhhh, I don’t really give a shit about your play garbage, you know? Sorry.”
“Nurf,” Preston croaked. He crossed his arms. Not today. Not on the last day.
"Preston." The surly boy replied, echoing Preston's tone. "Last day of camp..." His tone seemed reflective, almost casual. It set Preston on edge. "Gonna miss all the easy targets. It took so little effort to take out my own insecurities on you."
Preston grimaced, gingerly resuming his packing. "The feeling isn't mutual." He murmured.
Nurf shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, of course not. I’ve been pretty destructive towards you and our peers, why would you ever miss me?” He laughed, and ended it with a snort. "At least I'm not as bad as I used to be, right?"
"Debatable." Was Preston's deadpan response. Nurf hummed.
A heavy silence settled over the room, and Preston was wordlessly praying for Max, Harrison, Nerris-- hell, /anyone/ but Nurf to save him from it. He had his back turned to the other boy, hurriedly shoving various props and costumes into his bag, hoping to finish quick.
Footsteps approaching made the playwright tighten up for a moment, and he turned to see that Nurf had stepped closer, watching him. "Did-- Did you need something?" He sputtered, vaguely aware of how his hands trembled.
"Need help?"
Preston blinked for a moment, straightening up. "Uh," He looked at what he had left to gather, and then back at Nurf. "...Sure. Could you pick up those costumes over there? I'm pretty sure they're all mine."
Nurf nodded. "Why do you have so much shit back here? I knew you rode Broadway's dick but I didn't think you'd haul five million things to camp for it."
Preston just shrugged and tittered half-heartedly. "I like my performances to be authentic."
"Fucking nerd."
"Whatever."
Another silence settled, interrupted only by the rustling of clothes, twofold this time. Preston slid his bag closer to Nurf so he could pile the costumes in.
"That's all of it." Preston announced, hauling the bag over his shoulder. "Thanks for the help, I guess."
Nurf shrugged, "Think of it as a preliminary apology."
"Preliminary?"
The familiar sound of a switchblade opening sent a cold weight hurtling down to Preston's gut. "What-- But I thought--" He sputtered.
The way Nurf was acting earlier nearly put Preston at ease. The weight of his mistake was starting to settle on him, and he directed his eyes at the ground. "Nurf, please--"
"It's really nothing personal. I just need one more punching bag before they send me off." He rolled his shoulders casually, and cracked his neck as he rolled his head back and forth. "Aaand seeing as you're one of the only ones not picked up, you're kind of my only option."
He spun the blade in the air and took a step, which made Preston take a step back reflexively. "How about you empty your pockets for me before we never see each other again, huh? For old time's sake?" He pointed the blade at Preston. "You know, a lot of kids from bad homes end up living lives of crime. Who knows, maybe I'll get a better start on your cash."
Preston gasped as he felt his shoulder blades settle against the wall, and he balled his fists, still staring at the ground. "No." The word fell from his mouth like he was letting it go from between his teeth.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
Still trembling, Preston pulled what he could of himself together, and lifted his head up to glare at his long-term bully. "I said no. I'm not giving you anything."
Nurf seemed temporarily stunned by the sudden change in Preston's demeanor, which gave the playwright more than enough time to let out everything he'd ever wanted to say to Nurf.
"Look at yourself. You're so aware of what you're doing. You've got the brains to know the harm you're causing, and what do you do with it?" He threw his hands into the air, exasperated. "You don't fix your actions! You don't spare any of us! Hell--"
Brave enough to take a step forward from the wall, Preston pointed a slender, accusatory finger at Nurf. "You use your self-awareness like it's an /excuse/! Wake up, Nurf! We're practically adults now! Take a look around at your age group. We've grown, and we've learned, and we've improved as people. But you? You see a problem in your path and you try to violently stab your way through it. Just like when we were kids."
Whether it was the pointedness of Preston's speech, the harsh tone-- or the fact that Nurf wasn't used to being stood up to, one couldn't be sure-- but the larger boy only blinked back at the words being thrown at him.
"You're not a kid anymore, you brute! You don't have an excuse to act like such a bully! No... No, when you're an adult, it's not called being a bully. It's called being a dick! If you're so self-aware, for God's sake-- act like it!" Preston took another few steps, enough to be able to jab his finger into Nurf's chest.
He was close. Definitely close enough to be stabbed, if Nurf was fast enough. But his blade stayed stationary at his side, and while Preston neared, he was barely paying attention to keeping a grip on it anymore.
Nurf finally got some sense to act, grabbing for Preston's wrist and getting a hold on it-- but within a moment's time, a bony fist collided with his nose, his blade flew from his other hand, and Preston's hostage wrist was freed as Nurf went to cradle his assaulted face. "Ow! Fucking-- Goodplay, I'll kill you!! The hell was that f--"
"You know what it was for." Preston grumbled, rubbing his knuckles. And again, holding his bloodied nose, Nurf was shocked into silence. An angrier silence, but silence nonetheless. Preston grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and almost went to leave before he turned to Nurf, with a glare on his face to end them all. "Oh. And by the way?"
Preston's eyes were filled with flame-- like this speech had been burning inside of his lungs for ages. And with a single utterance, he ended it.
"Don't ever fucking touch me again."
With that, Preston made a swift exit from the stage, back into the bright light of the outside world. It didn't look like Nurf was following him-- Good. It would serve him right to sit and think about what he had done. Not just to Preston, but to all of them. He stepped back inside his tent, looking 99% more soured than ten year-old milk. If looks could kill.
Max caught onto the atmosphere nigh instantaneously. "Christ, what happened to you back there? Did all your shit get mildewed, or something?" He hopped from his cot to help Preston with the bag, and to peek inside.
Preston was silent, rubbing his knuckles idly and shaking his head. Max knew that look. "Dammit. Was Nurf giving you shit again? I swear to god, I--"
"Yes and no," Preston consoled the boy before his temper rose too high. "I took care of it." Max's eyes trailed to where he rubbed at his red knuckles, and put together the puzzle pieces quickly.
He spoke with wide eyes. "Holy shit! Did you fucking deck him?" One of Max's hands clapped Preston on the back, somewhat proud. "I didn't think you had it in you! I bet he shit his fucking pants!" Preston relaxed a little and grinned.
"Yeah. I'll bet he did."