what is this?: a bo burnham imagine
summary: you’re both summer camp counselors, and the entire camp ships you
words: 1433
triggers: none except for cuteness
“Do you think I’ll drown?”
“Unlikely. Creeks aren’t that big.”
“What if I get malaria from the mosquitos?”
“Easy, natural selection.”
You rolled your eyes and lean on his shoulder, or rather, his upper arm. If only he would just shrink a few inches. You’re on the rickety bus to Camp Victory, not as campers but as senior counselors. You both needed the service hours and, anyway, it’s not like either of you would really have been doing anything else over the summer, unless you count the vicious Mario Kart tournaments that almost always ends with Bo threatening a breakup. You know Bo’s going to be great at this whole counselor thing, because he’s essentially a kid himself— when he’s not writing satire about religion, at least. But as for you… kids aren’t exactly your forte, and here you are about to deal with a whole cabin full of them.
You feel Bo shift a bit under you. “Hey, lay off. I thought we weren’t doing PDA for… three weeks? Three weeks.”
“Oh, relax, you big baby,” you say, closing your eyes. “We’re not there yet.” You’d insisted on this stipulation before you left, much to your boyfriend’s dismay. You figured making out in front of a bunch of kids wasn’t exactly the best way to show the face of responsibility.
“In that case, I think I should be able to get another kiss before this dumb dry spell you’re forcing on me.”
You don’t say anything at first; you only tilt your head back stick your lips out in your worst duck-face impression. “Come and get it.”
You can feel his smile when he kisses you, the edge of his glasses gently pushing in to your cheek. You’re the one who pulls away though, and when Bo tries to come back for more you push a finger against his lips.
You decide that, upon arrival, Camp Victory was originally built for munchkins. There are two facing rows of small cabins, twelve in all, odd numbers on one side, even on the other. Each is crammed with four bunk beds but no utilities—- just two small dressers with drawers, some shelves, and eight coat hooks. Bo was seriously going to have some bruises on him the first few days. You’d read on the website that it was owned by a church, which donated the camp to the county’s social services for three weeks each summer for summer camp. It was run on a shoestring, and you didn’t expect more than the basics. The basics were all you got.
You and Bo are split from the second you get off the bus; boys get the odd-numbered cabins, and girls, the even ones. Senior counselors, you found out, were to be in charge of seven kids each, ages seven to ten. Every cabin was supposed to choose a name for itself— your girls pick Werewolves, which should have told you something right there.
After everyone gets their stuff settled in the cabins and sleeping assignments are arranged, everything happens at top-speed. Mr. Harrigan, the camp director, hands all the counselors clipboards with their kids’ names and that cabin’s schedule for the day. It seems that Mr. Harrigan doesn’t want to waste one second of the long summer hours, and the rest of your day is filled with baseball, volleyball, canoeing, and hiking. You have to keep mentally counting your girls to make sure none of them have run off.
The next time you see Bo is when you pass him and his boys during an activity switch. “Hey, Bo,” you say, nudging him with your hip. “What name did you get yourselves? I’ve got the Werewolves.”
“Buzzards,” he replies, tucking his clipboard under his arm. “AKA, the best name.” He doesn’t get to say more, because one of his boys quickly runs up and grabs his arm.
“Bo, c’mon! The canoe race is gonna start any minute!”
Bo raises his eyebrows at you, the corners of his lips twitching up as he allows the boy to lead him away. You can’t help but stand and smile after them, and it’s not long before one of your own girls tugs your shirt.
You and the rest of the Werewolves spend the quiet hour after dinner not-so-quiet at all, working out whose stuff is left everywhere and whose shoes are stinking up the place. You’re about to collapse into a twenty minute nap when one of them— Abigail, you think her name is— says something that gets your attention.
“You know, I bet [Y/N] likes that tall counselor.” Giggling ripples through the little wooden cabin. Abigail’s voice gets all sing-songy then. “Doooo you, [Y/N]? Huh? Dooooo you?”
You shrug. “Maybe,” you say, knowing your vagueness will drive them bananas. It does, and they shriek with laughter.
“What would you do if we told him?” Another girl. Her name’s… what? Jessie?
You laugh. “Oh, I’d hang you by your little toenails, girl-baby.” More laughter, because they don’t need to know you’re actually dating that cute tall counselor just yet.
They also don’t need to know that he holds your hand under the blanket at the campfire that night.
————————————————————————–
The weeks slip by, and before you know it you’re constantly covered in angry mosquito bites, sweat, and occasional lake water. Bo’s not faring too well, either; the Buzzards and Werewolves had crafts together one day, and Bo just couldn’t stop scratching.
“Stop it!” you say, slapping his hand down when you see it move up to his arm. “Scratching it only makes it worse.”
“Oh, come onnnnn, [Y/N]! I think I might actually be dying.”
You notice that Bo’s boys are looking at the both of you in a really weird way, and when you catch them a smatter of giggling breaks out, followed by a bunch of whispers. You raise your eyebrows pointedly at your boyfriend, which clearly asks: Motherfucker, did you tell a bunch of fourth graders we were dating?
“I didn’t say anything,” Bo says quickly, raising his hands up in a quick surrender, but your eyebrows only get higher.
“Why. Are. They. Looking at us like that?…”
“Relax. Robbie 2000 has got it all under control.”
You hit him with your clipboard when he says that stupid nickname from high school, but your question still isn’t really answered.
But does he answer your question on the last night of camp. Oh, yes, he does.
The last campfire goes like the usual ones— he sits by you and everyone sings all the traditional campfire songs and some ghost stories go around. But when the hour’s up and you start to stand to get back to your cabin, Bo pulls you back down. “You’ll wanna see this,” he whispers before he gets up. The chatter dies down and you see that the boys in his cabin are looking particularly eager.
“Alright, so… quick little thing before you guys all go… a few days ago two of my boys— Andy and Finn, I’m lookin’ at you— got into this huge argument over whose shoes were laying in the doorway to our cabin. So, being the responsible, peacemaking counselor I am, I gave them some options: one, they work this out themselves, but they don’t have to be friends. Two, they work it out and become friends. Three—“
“Bo kisses that girl he’s always with!” one of his boys blurts, and the rest of the camp shrieks with laughter and surprised yells. A huge smile splits your face and you struggle to push it off, trying to appear as disgusted as the other girl campers were. You were, after all, the face of responsibility…
“Now,” Bo says once the noise has died down. “I have asked Mr. Harrigan if it’s alright if some PG-13 stuff is shown tonight, and he has agreed, so, props to Mr. Harrigan—“ gesture to the director, who’s positively red with laughter at what’s unfolding before him.
“And so, [Y/N],” Bo says, pulling you up to your feet, “Would you do me a favor and kiss me on this fine night under the stars?”
Now you can’t fight the huge smile on your face that’s probably making you blush like a schoolgirl, and you’re thankful for the semi-darkness that’s coating you.
“You want to see me kiss this lovely boy?” you ask the circle of campers around the fire. There’s cheers all around before you turn back to face your boyfriend.
“Three weeks,” you shake your head.
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