Work Text:
Fiyero swore he was paying attention to whatever Galinda, Pfannee, and Shenshen had deemed absolutely essential to discuss loudly, incessantly, and all at once.
It’s just that…well, she was across the room, and he couldn’t be blamed for focusing on her instead.
Elphaba and Galinda’s syncopates were, from what he could tell, maintaining an uneasy truce. They stayed out of her way, and she stayed out of theirs. And no matter how dear Galinda’s “Elphie” might be to her, the two hangers-on would never truly accept the green girl.
Fiyero had never claimed to be the sharpest tool, but even he could feel the tension Galinda was either ignoring or blissfully unaware of. And so, on this most beautiful afternoon, he found himself trapped listening to Pfannee’s latest lament, whatever minor tragedy had struck him this week, while across the room Elphaba sat in a pool of sunlight, reading.
Her deep brown eyes moved quickly across the pages, sharp and alive, hungry for whatever new knowledge she was devouring. He wondered if she’d tell him at supper what she was reading, if she’d even think to mention it at all.
He liked to think she didn’t notice him watching her sometimes. But she always did, of course she did. Elphaba saw everything: the cracks in people, the hollow smiles, the restless hands. She had this unnerving way of looking through the surface, straight to the thing you thought you’d buried deep enough that no one would ever find it. And yet, when her eyes landed on him, it didn’t feel like exposure. It felt…seen.
It wasn’t that anyone else treated him badly. He was well liked, popular, even. Charming when he wanted to be, which was often. But with Elphaba, he never had to perform. She’d roll her eyes at his attempts to be smooth, scoff when he exaggerated a story, jab at his supposed lack of intelligence with that razor wit of hers—and somehow, he’d end up smiling anyway. She made him feel real, which was a rare thing for someone whose life had been one long performance.
She was brilliant in the way fire is dangerous: captivating, but always just out of reach. She saw the world like it was a puzzle to be solved, a riddle that might yield its secrets if she just thought hard enough. He found himself studying her the way she studied books—curious, intent, reverent. There was something almost holy about how her mind worked, how fiercely she cared, how she never compromised herself to make anyone else comfortable.
He supposed that was why she unsettled people. She didn’t flatter or play along. She was herself—wholly and unapologetically—and Pilgrims above, he admired her for it. Maybe even envied her.
And gods, she was beautiful. Not in the way Pfannee or Shenshen were—powdered, perfumed, practiced. Elphaba’s beauty was unintentional, unpolished. The way sunlight hit her skin, the way her eyes narrowed when she thought, the small, reluctant smiles she gave when something genuinely amused her. Beauty that wasn’t meant to please anyone, least of all him.
But the way she shined when she looked at Galinda or Nessa? The affectionate way she’d run her fingers through her sister’s dark curls in the poppy field before Nessa embarrassed Fiyero and Boq during their friendly archery competition? The way she’d indulge Galinda’s attempts at painting her nails, or spar verbally with Boq until both were smiling in spite of themselves. The times she defended the Animals in class were the moments Fiyero swore his heart might burst.
Her capacity for empathy was a thing of beauty to behold—and the fact that he was one of her friends, a friend she more than tolerated for Galinda’s sake, he hoped, felt like one of the greatest honours the prince had ever been granted.
Not that it mattered. He wasn’t delusional. Whatever this… fascination was, it wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t the sort of man someone like Elphaba would ever take seriously. She was sharp edges and conviction; he was soft talk and distraction. She’d see right through him if he ever tried to be anything more.
Still, friendship with her was its own kind of miracle. The barbs they traded had rhythm now—something practiced and oddly intimate. He’d tease her about the ink stains on her fingers; she’d call him a walking brain vacancy. He’d grin at her stubborn scowl; she’d roll her eyes so hard he half expected her to sprain something. And sometimes, when her guard was down—when she forgot to be bristled and wary—she’d smile at him. A small, quiet thing that hit him somewhere deep in the chest.
That smile stayed with him longer than he’d ever admit.
And if he caught himself looking for it across crowded rooms—if he found himself waiting for her dry remarks the way others waited for applause—well. He was just observing.
Just observing, as always.
He must’ve been staring longer than he realized. One second, Elphaba was absorbed in her book, sunlight catching the sharp line of her cheekbone; the next, her eyes lifted—and found his.
He froze like a schoolboy caught misbehaving. Feldspur would have laughed himself hoarse, pun fully intended.
There was nowhere to hide from her gaze; she didn’t look at people so much as into them. He braced for her usual sharp remark from across the courtyard, but instead she simply tilted her head, an expression somewhere between suspicion and reluctant amusement ghosting across her face. Then came that familiar roll of her eyes—deliberate, slow, punctuation to a sentence she hadn’t needed to say aloud.
And then she jerked her chin toward the steps. Just a tiny motion. Barely there. To anyone else it might have looked like nothing at all, but he knew better. He’d learned to read the subtle dialect of her silences—the way she gestured when words were unnecessary. That tilt of the head was an invitation.
His heart leapt, ridiculous and immediate. It was the smallest thing—a flick of her hand, an impatient beckon—but to him it felt monumental. She wanted to talk. To him.
Probably about her book, he told himself quickly, because she did that sometimes. When she’d been buried in a subject for hours, she’d eventually surface and look for someone who could tolerate the torrent of words that followed. Not understand, necessarily, just endure with a semblance of interest. And somehow, he’d become that someone.
He knew he wasn’t her intellectual equal. Half the time, he pieced her arguments together from context and bravado, but she didn’t seem to mind. She’d tease him, of course—heavens forbid she didn’t—but she’d explain, too. Patiently, if kindly. That was her strange kindness: never condescending, but always compassionate.
Trying to school his expression into something cooler than the boyish grin threatening to spread, Fiyero turned back to the table.
Galinda was still mid-monologue, something about the latest gala and the absolute tragedy of last season’s colour palette, while Pfannee and Shenshen chimed in with scandalized gasps and unhelpful giggles.
He stood, dusting off his trousers in an exaggerated gesture of politeness. “Well,” he announced lightly, “as delightful as this discussion of fabric-related catastrophes has been, I find myself summoned by higher forces.”
“Summoned?” Galinda repeated, blinking before her honey-coloured eyes flicked toward her best friend, and she gave a fond smile.
He smiled back, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek—a gesture that had become so habitual it almost meant nothing. “Duty calls,” he said smoothly, though his blue eyes flicked away to where Elphaba was waiting, arms crossed, pretending not to look.
Pfannee scoffed. “Oh, go on then, off to your little charity case.”
He frowned, ready to retort, but Galinda tutted softly to her friend in warning. That, he decided, would have to be enough. He straightened, grin returning with difficulty, and sauntered away with that loose, dancer’s grace he wore like armour.
But the moment he was out of their circle, the mask slipped. His steps quickened just a little. He could feel the heat of the sun fade as he crossed into Elphaba’s shadow.
She didn’t move when he reached her, just lifted an eyebrow, as if to say ‘finally.’
“Took you long enough,” she said dryly.
“Tragic, isn’t it? I was nearly trapped in a discussion about sleeves.”
Her mouth twitched he lov—liked that, the way she never quite smiled unless she truly meant it. “You poor soul. I’m sure you’ll make a full recovery.”
“Only if you tell me what’s so fascinating that you couldn’t tear your eyes away,” he said, nodding toward the book still tucked beneath her arm.
Her gaze softened, just slightly. “You wouldn’t want me to ramble at you.”
He grinned. “Try me.”
And there it was: that flicker in her expression, equal parts challenge and curiosity, the one that meant she might actually indulge him.
She sighed—an exaggerated sound meant to disguise the fact that she wanted to share—and sat down again on the edge of the steps. He followed, a little too eagerly, folding himself beside her like a loyal dog pretending to be casual.
“It’s about the nature of moral intelligence,” she said finally, her voice slipping into that lyrical rhythm he adored. “Whether understanding the difference between right and wrong actually obliges us to act on it or whether morality is just…awareness. A kind of observation.”
He blinked. “Observation.”
“Yes,” she said, frowning at the page. “The idea that you can know the right thing and still, consciously, choose not to do it. That morality isn’t instinct, it’s choice.”
He thought for a moment. “So…people can know better and still be idiots.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “Exactly,” she said after a pause. “Though I notice you phrased that like it came from experience.”
He laughed. “Hey, I never claimed to be anything but consistent.”
She shook her head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘hopeless’. But her eyes were warm now, quietly so, and the corners of her mouth curved in that elusive almost-smile that made the whole world tilt a little.
They lingered there longer than either intended, sunlight stretching thin and gold around them, her voice low and thoughtful as she spoke, his laughter filling the pauses. He didn’t understand half of what she said, not really, but it didn’t matter. He liked the way her words sounded, the way her mind unfolded itself in front of him: beautiful, relentless, alive.
Elphaba had a strange kind of cadence when she spoke about things she loved. Words fell from her mouth too fast, like she couldn’t get them out quickly enough for her own mind. Every so often she’d glance up, realize he probably hadn’t followed a word, and slow herself—not enough to condescend, just enough to make space for him to exist inside her thoughts.
And he lov—enjoyed that about her. That she let him exist there at all.
A breeze rustled the pages. She squinted against the light, turning a little so the sun wasn’t in her eyes. The movement brought her closer, just barely, and Fiyero found himself holding his breath without meaning to.
He shouldn’t notice things like that, he told himself. The way a lock of her dark braids caught the gold of the sun, or how her skin wasn’t the harsh, unnatural green others made it out to be, but something deeper: earthy, almost luminous.
She caught him staring again. Of course she did.
“Stop that,” she said.
“Stop what?”
“Looking like you’re trying to decipher a language you don’t speak.”
He smiled, sheepish. “Maybe I am. You make everything sound like a code.”
Her brow furrowed. “It’s not a code. It’s—”
“—complicated,” he supplied, chuckling. “Your favourite word, by the way. I think you like being impossible to follow.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Maybe I just like that you try.”
That made something warm and unsteady flutter through him. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he looked down, picking at a stray thread on his cuff until his pulse stopped tripping over itself.
“You don’t have to pretend to care about this, you know,” she said after a beat, voice softer now. “I’m aware that you and moral philosophy aren’t exactly friends.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “No, but I like listening to you talk about it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery doesn’t make you sound any faker.”
“Who said I was trying to?” he said easily, grinning at her. “I’m just saying, I’d rather hear you talk about right and wrong than hear Pfannee talk about satin.”
That earned him a small, startled laugh—a real one, the kind she didn’t mean to let out. It cracked through her usual guarded composure and disappeared as quickly as it came, but he caught it—and held onto it like something precious.
When she closed the book, tucking it under her arm again, he thought that maybe, just maybe, she was smiling to herself.
“Walk me back?” she asked, casual, like it wasn’t a question she already knew the answer to.
He blinked, realizing that Galinda had left with her followers and he hadn’t noticed. Looking back at the young woman beside him he answered with a soft smile: “Always.”
They fell into step along the edge of the courtyard, their shoulders nearly brushing. She told him a little more about her book, but the conversation had turned easier now—more teasing, less theory. Every so often she’d say something sharp and he’d volley it right back, their banter as natural as breathing.
And as the sun slipped lower, Fiyero found himself watching the way the light caught on the green of her skin, turning it into something radiant. He knew she’d hate it if he said so, knew she’d accuse him of being ridiculous, but he thought she looked like she belonged in that light.
Brilliant. Unreachable. And yet somehow walking beside him.
He smiled to himself, content in that small, impossible truth: that she let him close enough to see her like this.
Maybe she’d never think of him the confusifying way he thought of her. Maybe she’d always be a little out of reach: sharp and strange and brilliant in ways he could only half grasp, destined to work beside the Wizard and later outpace even him. Illuminated by more than her magic. Meant to change the world while he settles down into a life of monotony with no contentment as the next ruler of the Vinkus remembering the days he spent with the wonderful Elphaba Thropp in his youth.
But for now, walking with her through the late afternoon haze, trading half-sarcastic remarks and quiet laughter, the world felt a little less heavy.
If this was the opposite of thoughtlessness, he didn’t mind it.
He might actually like thinking a little.
And for now, that was more than enough—
enough just to be seen.