Chapter Text
It had been months since Wirt had written something. And, because he was a professional poet, so to speak, it was a terrible inconvenience. His publisher was nowhere near happy, always urging the boy to "write some lines, it cannot be that difficult".
Wirt usually wrote about forests. People found his metaphor about death really original and beautifully written. Every critic said the same thing. And it wasn't that he didn't appreciate those comments, but he was tired of trees and feeling helpless. So he thought of taking a break from poetry, but even being one of the bestselling authors, a single book didn't pay the bills. His fans were wondering about what he was working on, what was he doing. And the answer was, nothing. Wirt just stayed home and stared at a blank page for hours. Inspiration never came, he couldn't even write about not having inspiration.
Things changed when a new neighbour arrived. Wirt lived in a block of flats, so he didn't personally knew any of his neighbours, but this one was different. He was around his age, with brown, curly hair and a round nose (which, Wirt inmediately thought, was the cutest he had ever seen). He wore thick framed glasses that were always falling from the bridge of his nose. Probably. Not that Wirt noticed. Also, he lived right in front of him.
He was so curious he looked at his name at his letterbox. Dipper Pines. It felt weirdly nice to say it aloud. He looked it up on the internet and lots of results appeared. He was a renowned scientist, who specialized on the supernatural.
Is the supernatural a science? Is it even real? Certainly, Dipper Pines seemed to believe it and he was completely different from any other person. He first read some of his works. The scientist had done a lot of essays about a town in Oregon, Gravity Falls, where he swore strange creatures lived. His essays consisted on proofs about numerous uncanny beings.
Wirt couldn't sleep that night. His mind buzzed with ideas and new ways of thinking he never deemed possible.
He started writing that morning. He wrote about gnomes, huge monsters and slippery beast trees. Creativity had risen again, and, Wirt thought, better than ever.
He was so grateful he wanted to thank the scientist personally. Also, maybe he was developing a crush on him and, maybe, he had written some love poems thinking of him too.
Wirt was standing on his neighbour's door, his hands gripping tightly a bouquet of flowers. He was shaking a bit. Even though he had had to do lots of interviews and met lots of people, he still wasn't comfortable with it. And this was his crush! Were flowers a good present? Or was it too cheesy? Only one way to find out. But the doorbell felt miles away from his finger. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't.
Wirt left the bouquet at the door, alongside one of the poems he had composed from the man's essays. He figured it was enough for now.