He didn’t know what was up with him tonight, all of a sudden he decided to pull out a pen and a small notebook writing out little details of certain characteristics. So there he was, the illusionist at 1 am, head on the table with a hand gripping on his pen while the other repeatedly whacked his head under a blinding flashlight.

Someone could look at him right now and tell him he looked pathetic, I mean? The way he's acting at the moment, the fact there are so many crumpled papers on the ground, and the fact he’s making a poem in the first place! It was dorky to say the least and he would definitely get a teasing over it.

Harrison groaned in despair, thinking of words to write, rhymes to make, and things to discuss. Based on past events, he remembered a certain somebody who found poems enlightening and he couldn’t get it out of his head. The brunette knew that he has his ways on metaphors, he finds himself using them every now and then—although the problem here is that he’d only ever use it if it was circling around magic. Based on who he was erm…. Making it for.. He felt like he couldn’t do any of that.

With no progress done, Harrison continued to lie his head down the table. This time one of his legs starts bouncing repeatedly due to stress. He never thought he’d be worrying over something like this, if he ever found himself last week planning to do anything near to this, he’d probably put himself in more shame as he is now.

“What are you doing?” Harrison instantly looked at the direction and started shuffling around the paperfilled desk.

“Preston! Nothing! I was just about to go to.. sleep?” yeah that’s right! Who wouldn’t believe that right in the middle of midnight hours while looking like a madman creating something really suspicious…!

“Spill it.”

“No! I’m just trying to figure out new tricks I could do for my next show!” Harrison retorted

“Oh okay. Guess you WOULDN'T MIND if i steal one of these CRUMPLED ones!” Preston quickly grabbed two to three papers on the ground and opened them. With Harrison’s luck, Preston is known to be a fast reader due to his specialty with producing scripts. Great.

Harrison would try to push the papers off but his embarrassment has already taken over his body and all he could ever really do is stare frantically while drastically hoping for the light to already take him.

“Who would write a poem and start it with ‘roses are red’? Poetries are supposed to be IMPOSING and SINCERE, not this kind of junk! What are we? Twelve?” We are. The other scoffed trying to hide his already reddened cheeks. “Wait…”

And there it was. The moment he was waiting for. The long awaited humiliation and shame from another camper, let along the loudest one in the camp.

“Who is it for?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know…” He can’t risk this conversation to get out of this very tent, he already got enough with the other guy reading some of his failed attempts and now he would rather die than for everyone to know.

“oh OH! Is it for Nerris?” So much for keeping things private.

Harrison knew whatever feelings he had for that other magic kid was never really something that was kept, it’s like everyone had this sense where they knew what was up—Hell! Even David awkwardly tried to obviously hinting it to him. But to think that the other would just straight up guess- no- disclose their name is what is setting up his head on the ledge of a point. Who was he kidding? Not only was his actions already odd enough—this was Camp Campbell he was talking about, he practically won’t have a day for him to admit something without someone already mentioning it.

He was half relieved though, having to reveal that would cause him nine lives, even to his tentmate. What he just hopes for now is that for Nerris to not get any sort of news about it.

“Well my friend, you’re not really that discreet” Harrison sighed in defeat.

“HOWEVER! as your great companion! It is a must to help you with this sort of problem!” Preston added with a grin

“You just wanted to make a really dramatic poem, didn't you?”

“I just want to make a really dramatic poem, yes.”

Harrison groaned in reply, wanting this conversation to end as fast as it could. With Preston’s help he doesn't know what to expect—he knew it’d either be actually helpful or he’d end up making a really overly detailed and theatrical piece for the elfkin. “Fine. But let’s go head to sleep first.”