Work Text:
The gentle smell of jasmine slowly wafted through Pie's room. A desk stood next to the wall, slanted upwards, a beautiful fountain pen resting on part of the desk that extrudes outward. Her bed sat in the corner of the room, their nightstand with nothing more than a lamp, small book, and Rubik's Cube, sitting in a Superflip. The room itself lacked much decoration - a few Death P.A.C.T. decals, a demigirl flag, and the wallpaper had polka dots - but it did have some furniture. Most of all, though, of course, was the tea station. A kettle, multiple boxes of different teas, and, of course, Pie.
Currently, Pie was making some jasmine tea. It wasn't a very flavorful tea, usually tasted more like water with a hint of flavor, but it was always a favorite of hers when they were going to be writing. And, of course, with nothing better to do, and Death P.A.C.T. Again not planning to hang out today, Pie was going to write. Nothing too special, she usually would write basic short stories of their own original characters in a unique fantasy world, or a poem about whatever was going on the world. But, with nothing happening, the plan was to write a short story.
After pouring the tea into a small mug, which Two made, with the Death P.A.C.T. Again logo on it, Pie sat down at her desk. Putting the tea on the right side of them, and picking up their fountain pen with her left hand, Pie let the words come to her. Sure, there was a plan, it was to write a short story, but Pie always just let the words come first, and the thought come later. Writing was meant to be relaxing, so letting the words come instead of planning helped for that relaxing vibe.
However, after around 20 minutes of writing, Pie realized that their writing was actually a poem.
A poem about a small, spunky nerd, one who clashed with her, but one that also completed her, in a way. A small, spunky nerd who would lock herself away so no one would talk to her. A small, spunky nerd that was written upon a pedestal.
Pie had written a poem about Golf Ball.
Pie wasn't going to share this poem to anyone. But they weren't going to destroy it, either. This poem would be a secret, a small secret, a secret taken to the grave.