Archive of Our Own

Galinda much prefers it when life remains light and easy. She herself is light, stunningly bright in a way that dazzles. She has been familiar with ease from birth, really, never wanting for much. At least, never wanting in a way that matters. Anything she wishes for she is granted, and the sensation of yearning is not one she is well acquainted with because the very moment she expresses desire, the object of it is turned over to her. Her life follows the track of a game everyone else knows they will lose, and so they forfeit before she can preen over her victory, waving white flags in her face.

It is plush and it is comfortable, knowing that these things are guaranteed.

Her acceptance into Shiz is like that, familiar to her. Of course she gets in. There is no other alternative, not from the moment she pieces together a parcel and ships it off to Madame Morrible. It had hardly taken her more than a day to assemble her application, in fact, curly handwriting swirling in loops along the line of the address. It was pristine, pretty like her, and the wax seal that encloses the parchment sticks like her certainty. It will win her everything she wants.

Her father sends off a package the very same day, and Galinda thinks nothing of its contents. Later that night, he showers her in the most indulgent dinner she has ever been treated to, and to her it is a celebration, not a distraction.

It is a celebration because life is easy for her, and she had not spent her early years clutching a quill in between stiff fingers ignoring the way it left her hands aching each time for such exquisite cursive lettering to seem insignificant. Fuel for such a skill had come from one faint click of her mother’s tongue as she surveyed the efforts of a handwritten card, and then within the week she had it down to a near science, childhood chicken scratch forgotten about. As soon as she was finished the card had been crumpled. It had made good kindling for the bright burn of their hearth, bathing her in a blistering glow.

Shiz is full of light, the sort of place that never stops shimmering. Galinda feels right at home, each polished surface a reminder of that which is familiar. Marble and mirrors glint like the pale expanse of her father’s teeth set into a grin.

He had assured her, when she chipped a tooth at just six years old, that it would all be okay. Her first set were only temporary, after all, and back then she had been granted the chance to make mistakes. Still, his smile shone like pearls as he had told her that maybe by the time her baby teeth were all gone, they could think about a new set anyway. Her front two were a bit crowded, tight in the center of her face, and his procedure had been easy, so hers would be a breeze.

She is in the midst of running her tongue across the plane of her teeth when Elphaba appears, and just for a moment she swears she feels that chip return, a dent in a flawless exterior.

To soothe the phantom pain, she sinks her teeth into her tongue, and the indent left behind is smooth, reassuringly even.

It is wrong, she thinks, the way Elphaba draws attention. She is used to being the center of it all, of stares and wide-eyed expressions. Galinda is bright, but Elphaba is phosphorescent. It makes her twitch in a way that is not comfortable, not easy, and she sits perched atop her luggage cart in her own state of bewilderment.

For a moment, anyway. In the end, Galinda can conclude that she does not want to be gaped at the same way Elphaba is ogled by the other students. There is no admiration in it, not even a shred of bedazzled amusement. Gazes turn sharp, and Galinda figures hers must as well, inquisitive as she studies her. The thing is, she has known girls like Elphaba before. Well. Not quite like her. The hall that surrounds them is elegant, refined in neutral palettes, and the jewel tone of Elphaba’s green skin clashes intrinsically. She is not easy to look at, made of pointed sneers and a deeply furrowed brow, prickling with more quills than a porcupine.

Elphaba is unique, but only to a certain point, because Galinda recognizes that defensive nature from girls in her etiquette classes who could never truly manage to remember which spoon was for stirring sugar cubes into tea and which was to be left for dessert. She recalls anger, simmering and sharp, from peers whose parents could not afford a brand-new set of teeth, or puffy ballgowns so extravagant that the roundness of their faces, a remnant from childhood, could be lost in a sea of lavish beauty and tulle.

Sometimes those dresses had felt awfully tight, itchy around her throat, like the taut buttoned up collars had the power to choke her. Complaining would only ward off compliments, though, on behalf of how stunning she looked, and so she had forcibly forgotten the scratch of the fabric, numbing herself to the discomfort. She could swallow against it, the firm press of her protests, and then she could be perfect.

So she lapses easily into what is familiar, spurned on by her mother chirping that some girls would simply always be envious of her, so poised and pristine. Effortless. The fingers she uses to grip her quill twinge. Some girls would hate her for what she had, but that was not Galinda’s fault, not when it could be so easy to just adore her. She lets loose a quip and Elphaba glares, leaving Galinda to reach back and wriggle her fingertips along the base of her neck, gently easing out an itch. She figures Elphaba must hate her even before she says a word because the intensity behind her eyes is so overwhelming, because believing that this is predetermined is simple. They are diametrically opposed, and so Galinda will not even try to shift such a decidedly definitive dynamic.

Eyes turn back to her, soft laughter emerging in response to her words. That feels right, she thinks, and by the time anyone dares to look at Elphaba again, Galinda can find comfort in it. They may not be watching her, but they are moving according to her command. The students stare at Elphaba like she is a beast, perhaps one Galinda has conquered, and she does not like challenges, really, but she does take pleasure in the soothing balm of a return to normalcy.

There are very few times where Galinda has been proven wrong.  In the end, she supposes this instance is further evidence of her constant correctness, that Elphaba is a beast, because she works herself into a tizzy just like an unrefined, uncouth creature might. Madame Morrible’s attention is drawn away, leaving Galinda to grasp for it, and in the blink of an eye it all goes wrong, spinning her into a whirlwind that snatches the breath from her lungs.

Elphaba, positioned opposite of her, recoils when Madame Morrible collects both of their hands in her own and clasps them together. More than she is hurt that Elphaba pulls away at all, Galinda is offended by the fact that she manages to do so first. She is still stunned, the temporary warmth of that vibrant viridian skin on hers somehow freezing her into place, and by the time she moves, she feels the corner of her lip twitch in a mirror image of the disgusted curl of Elphaba’s expression. That offends her, too, because she feels as though she is just copying the girl standing across from her now, and really, a scowl is not something that should come easily to her.

Galinda smooths over her face, then, regaining a semblance of herself. She worries for the wrinkles that might be left behind on her face after such an unsavory look, and oh, she has known girls like Elphaba, but none have so readily worked their way beneath her skin. It eats her up inside, and with a steep tilt of her chin, she sniffs and stalks off.

She tries to, anyway. Before she has the chance, Elphaba proves to be extraordinary.

For the second time in a few short moments, Galinda’s breath stutters. She feels choked, like the sensation of one last button being popped into place around her neck has come back, and she gawks with distinct disbelief as Elphaba takes her ease, her guaranteed simplicity, and tears it straight from her grasp. Does she even want it, Galinda wonders? Does she need it?

She cannot bear to find out, and so she whisks herself away, drowning out the threat of gleaming green like it will not inevitably follow her to her room, her room, stirring that which is sacred.

Galinda leaves her luggage behind in her haste to hurry off, though only once she has taken time to utilize the elongated mirror marking the walls of her dormitory to preen herself into perfection does she realize it. She figures someone will bring it to her.

The door creaks open. Someone does.

It should be easy. It should be effortless, beaming back a smile at her savior, chipperly thanking them for tending to the pieces she herself would never pick up. It isn’t, though. Elphaba shuffles in, the knuckles she has wrapped around the handle of Galinda’s suitcases a slightly paler shade of emerald, and she finds it easier to stare down at Elphaba’s hands rather than her face as she practically spits out, you forgot these.

It should be easy, expressing her gratitude, lilting her voice up just high enough to satisfy someone selfless enough to take on the task of returning her belongings, spinning them about until they are spellbound.

It should be easy.

Elphaba refuses to let it be.

In a million miniscule ways, Elphaba strives to make Galinda’s life difficult.

She is not acquainted with things such as stress, tingling low in her stomach, twisting it this way and that. Galinda has never had to fret much on behalf of irritation, always able to hand wave away anything too bothersome for her to concern herself with. But Elphaba sends little pinpricks along her skin with each irksome habit. Elphaba is the reason Galinda flops into bed each day, flushed and frustrated, hovering constantly nearby like a looming storm cloud on the horizon.

She feels as though all she can do is wait for the storm to break, day in and day out, as the tension heightens. Their room accumulates an almost humid feeling to it, the air dense enough to make beads of sweat roll down the small of her back each time Elphaba’s eyes skim past hers.

Really, it is mostly Galinda who is responsible for the staring. She has no idea how she is supposed to resist, though, with such a jarring presence refusing to allow her any peace. She has not been able to bring any friends to her room to flaunt her well decorated walls and shelves upon shelves of shoes because she knows Elphaba’s proximity would frighten them off. Feeling truly comfortable is out of the question because the moments she gets to be alone are few and far between, what with Elphaba’s insistence upon always tucking herself into some dim corner for the sake of studying.

Studying. Really. Who spends so much time with their nose planted that firmly between the pages of books? More importantly, Galinda muses, why can Elphaba not simply tote herself off to the library to take care of whatever it is she needs to tend to?

Galinda is sure she must do it to spite her. She props up worn spines of sorcery books and makes a grand show of reading them, always certain to angle the cover just well enough that Galinda can read the titles or observe the elaborate illustrations that coat the fronts. Sometimes, she works her way through encyclopedias, nose scrunching and eyes squinting down at what Galinda can only imagine are agonizingly tiny lines of print.

Once, she had noticed her observing a rather hefty volume written on plant life. Elphaba was rarely one to leave their dormitory, but she had done so that day, and only a single moment of hesitation held Galinda back. Soon enough, strung along by her own curiosity, she’d spiraled right after the book left atop Elphaba’s desk. There were plenty of tabs kept in the book’s pages, too many to count, but Galinda chased after something more substantial than blatant bookmarks. Elphaba, for the way she stuck out like a sore thumb, was more of a subtle sort. She would not leave anything obvious lying out in plain sight.

In the end, the faint lingering warmth of fingers pressed to pages lead her exactly where she wanted. Guilt was another feeling Galinda was never made familiar with, and so she had felt only a surge of satisfaction upon the discovery of Elphaba’s most recent exploits. Reading thoroughly had never been her forte, and so it was a simple skim of the page that offered her what she craved. The corners were a bit worn, the book spread wide with the illustration of a flower she had never seen. She knew roses, of course, bundled into bouquets, sweet smelling with the faintest prick of risk tangled up in their stems.

The plant Elphaba had been studying, she found, was one linked to its own sort of danger. Oleander. Highly toxic, apparently. It felt like as much of a victory as it did a warning, and later, Galinda had gone to her friends and fretted in a shrill voice over the prospect that her roommate was plotting to poison her.

She returns to her room, day and night, and watches Elphaba with thinly veiled suspicion. She must be used to it, Galinda muses, because she rarely bothers to pick up on the fact that she is being watched. Truthfully, it seems she must be ignoring it altogether. That makes her twitch, too. She does not like to be ignored, and the next time Elphaba leaves and provides an opening for Galinda to snoop through another one of her books, she pointedly leaves it open to send a message.

Elphaba never mentions it, but when she approaches her desk later that day to find the book open and slightly shifted, she shuts it with a firm and resounding thud. That sound is enough to make Galinda grin, feeling as though she has finally gotten a leg up on her incessantly irritating roommate.

From that point onward, Elphaba’s gaze develops a tendency to drift on occasion. Never far, never for too long, but if Galinda plays her cards properly, she can manage to tear her eyes away from her studies with just the right amount of flouncing, or fussing with her hair, or stepping one foot too close to the invisible line that divides their room into two distinct halves.

Every time it happens, each instance in which Galinda catches that momentary flash of dark irises flicking over her, a spark lights at the base of her spine and travels all the way up. It inspires her to be more daring, thrumming her manicured nails on the wood of her vanity until Elphaba snaps at her to keep it down. Each rush of exhilaration she gets from her roommate’s reactions is better than the last, proof that Elphaba is not infallible – that even she, stubborn as she is, cannot resist the temptation of paying attention to Galinda.

Her machinations are not always successful, of course. Perhaps Elphaba catches on to her game, or maybe she really is as focused as she fronts, studious and diligent and an absolute bore. Doctor Dillamond has given them plenty of reading this week, and while Galinda wonders just how she might catch Elphaba’s eye next, her roommate pours over the provided pages, hunched and tense at her desk.

It really is unsightly to see her that way, shoulders drawn up, strands of hair untucked from her ears. Her glasses sit askew along the sharp slope of her nose, just crooked enough to drive Galinda insane. She wants to march herself right over and whisk them from her face, she thinks, just to hear Elphaba squawk about it.

A preemptively triumphant smile tickles the corners of her mouth as she contemplates the action, bathing in her imagination. She could snatch them right up, fold them neatly into her hand. She doesn’t want to break them, no. In fact, it would be more satisfying to hold them tenderly, fingers perched just an inch away from the lenses, ready to leave smudgy thumbprints but never truly daring to.

Maybe it would teach Elphaba a thing or two about carefulness, or grace, or any of the traits she so desperately lacks, and Galinda would get to see her face scrunch up without the defense of those circular panes of glass. She could witness all the bitterness in her eyes, laid plain and bare for her to drink in, and it would make her feel better about losing to Elphaba. There would be evidence that she has something Elphaba does not, refinement and class, and the number of times Elphaba has been pulled aside for lessons with Madame Morrible would melt away from her mind.

It would be proof that she can curl beneath Elphaba’s skin just as efficiently as the green toned girl crawls under hers, and perhaps then they would feel like equals.

Elphaba startles her, then, with a sharp inquiry of what are you smirking over? She reels, taken aback and bristling. Ever observant, Elphaba watches her with a quizzically raised brow that pokes just above the sharp reflection of her glasses. Beyond that, though, Galinda struggles to make out the subtleties of her expression.

It frustrates her, not knowing. Something in her bubbles, a mingled sensation of frustration threatening to burst coupled with an emotion more unreadable resulting from having Elphaba’s full focus on her for once, but Galinda bites it all back, instead insisting that she does not smirk. She smiles. There is a distinction, thank you very much, one Elphaba herself should learn. She declares it all with a delicate sniff, and when Elphaba responds, it is with a flash of teeth.

Clearly, the display is meant to be a mockery. Her dark eyes roll, head lolling to the side, and around her shoulders locks of black hair tangle as she pulls them ever closer to herself. Still, Galinda is stricken by the momentary show of her fangs, a memory or an impression of them fuzzy behind her eyelids when she finally blinks.

It was not a smile. More than anything, it was a snarl, a pointed warning like that page in Elphaba’s book. Something about it intoxicates her, though, and she goes to bed thinking about pointed fangs and poisonous petals, not quite able to place why her pulse rushes along to the recollection of both memories even as she drifts away into sleep.

When Fiyero shows up, a perfect fairytale prince ready to sweep her – quite literally – off her feet, Galinda is more than grateful for the simple bliss he provides.

What he makes her feel is painless to navigate, nothing like the complex web that Elphaba has her entangled in. He is handsome and he smiles easily at her, and so she does not have to spend days thinking about his fangs, or his heavy dark eyes, or the likelihood that he might slip poison into her drink when she is not looking. Truthfully, Galinda does not think much at all from the moment he has her wrapped within his arms, leaning into his warmth and allowing it to take her thoughts away.

Although she would never confess to it, life at Shiz has not been what Galinda anticipated. Somewhere between her surprise roommate and Madame Morrible’s rejection and the way that even the undivided attention of other students on her cannot settle her stomach, she finds it in herself to almost regret coming to its hallowed halls.

Fiyero helps with that, though. He offers her everything she wishes for, and she feels as though something has been smoothed over, a bump in the road forgotten. Back to getting what she wants, Galinda basks in the routine of her regular life. She can even manage to ignore Elphaba for once, flitting into her room and allowing herself to be caught in the importance of choosing just the right outfit.

Dresses are torn from her wardrobe, shoes strapped to her feet. At some point, Elphaba leaves, and Galinda spares her only a second long glance, feeling more resilient than she has in weeks.

Her bed is spread in swathes of color when a knock comes at her door. She knows it is not Elphaba, her roommate always too uncouth to bother checking the door before bursting in, but for a moment Galinda cannot imagine who else might have shown up here.

She spins open the door to a flood of faces, a package shoved her way. It takes her time to break past the excited squealing of her classmates, all eager to know every detail of her first meeting with Fiyero, to remember the discreetly packed box. Forgetting feels simple when she has so much more to focus on, wrapped up in the idea of dancing, twirling beneath ballroom lights, her surroundings a blur.

Eventually, though, someone prompts her to open it. She does not remember who, too many voices chirping. All she can pay attention to is the dark, patchy fabric that lies flat within the package, folded simply but still so unmistakable.

When Galinda had been little, before her mother and father had truly contemplated how easy it was to stir an impressionable mind, she used to spend quite a bit of time with her grandmother. Granny had always been eccentric, in her father’s words. Boorish, in her mother’s, spoken privately. When she indulged in a game of dress up, she would wrap Galinda in the most elaborate fabrics, embroidered seemingly without a purpose, patches of fabric filling every empty space. Galinda would laugh, because even then she had known there was something different about it all, the way she felt bubbly in those absurd outfits, and her Granny would smile and spin her about.

She liked to send gifts, Galinda’s grandmother. At first her parents had allowed her to cherish them, remnants of the long hours spent together that she could no longer enjoy. There were always excuses, always reasons to be busy when Granny called, or stopped by, or smiled briefly at Galinda and offered to watch her for an evening before being abruptly turned down. The gifts would placate her, though, and make her feel a little less like she was abandoning her Granny. Sometimes she would put on the odd piece here or there, though only ever once night had fallen over her room and no one could see. It had been a secret well kept, at least until she had caught one long sleeve on the corner of her bedpost and torn a hole, accidentally, through the end of it.

She had been inconsolable, running to her mother to repair it. Somehow, she had been sure that Granny would know, and that something more important than the garment itself would be ruined. Wiping up the tears that streaked her face, her mother lulled her into a state of calm, relenting only once Galinda had been able to crawl into bed and at least feign sleep for the night.

She’d heard her mother rustling through the house that evening, stirring across the wide floors below Galinda’s bedroom. Come morning, the shirt was gone, little more than a lesson in being careful to tend to her things. With it went the gifts, slowly but surely. At first, they would arrive packaged up for her to unravel, placed subtly aside until she had the nerve to ask her mother or father for the boxes. There would be a look behind their eyes, always, and something in her chest that felt like burning. For a while she managed to unwrap the presents, an endless supply of clothes far more intriguing than the glittery gowns her mother bestowed upon her, but she’d never put one on again, too worried about what might happen.

Inevitably, the presence of Granny’s gifts had fallen off altogether. Galinda supposed she liked it better that way, and that was that, a proper ending wrapped with a bow far more neat than the twine adornments her grandmother utilized for her own packaging.

So this comes as a surprise, this box, this hat. It trembles at the ends of her fingertips. Beside her, someone guffaws as she lifts it, the wide rimmed brim unfurling with a pop. Nervous laughter bubbles in her throat in response, and soon enough Galinda joins them, cackling along with a group of students who hear only that her grandmother likes to send her the most hideous of hats, and how could something like this ever suit someone like her?

She keeps laughing, refusing to falter as the girls around her twirl the pointed hat in their hands, passing it in a circle and trying it on only to mock it further. Galinda wants to snap, give it back, because this is stupid, frivolous, and silly like the tears she had shed all those years ago over a torn sleeve, and she has better things to focus on. She endures it, though, until the initial shockwave of amusement dies down, and then she clutches the hat in her hands, ready to toss it to the back of her wardrobe and forget.

An extended arm stops her. An idea brews. I’d give it away, she says, feeling helpless, but. A different excuse tumbles out, one that sparks a flame cruel and biting.

Galinda fans the fire. What else can she do?

Out of the goodness of her heart, she claims, knowing it is a lie. There is something heartfelt to the effort of passing the hat, point first, toward Elphaba, extending it like a weapon. For the first time, she thinks she sees something other than annoyance twitch at the corners of Elphaba’s lips, and then she is gone in a rush, just like Elphaba herself.

Under the simmering lights of the Oz Dust Ballroom, Galinda nearly forgets the exchange, skin exposed and warm from where the packed air touches her, where Fiyero’s hands rest and linger. She giggles, spinning herself until she is dizzy, making Fiyero keep up with her. She wants him to be lost in the feeling the very same way she is, and so she tightens her fingers around the fabric of his suit, pulling and pressing until she cannot distinguish his space from her own.

She beams when she catches a glimpse of Biq – Boq – out of the corner of her eye, and when she sees Nessa with him she swears that the swirling of her stomach is a secondhand effect of watching Elphaba’s sister be twirled around like she is weightless, an undeniable reward of Galinda’s meddling.

The butterflies in her stomach only surge, of course, when Madame Morrible finds her and secures a wand – a real, genuine wand – within her hands. Wings flutter against the walls of her insides, beating frantic and fast, and then they migrate upward, tickling her throat.

This is Elphaba’s doing, Madame Morrible tells her, and there is no forgetting that.

When Elphaba emerges with the hat on, the stupid hat, and Galinda cannot tell whether she is more stunned to see her wearing it or if the mere fact of her presence here is more than enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Feeling stunned is easier than feeling guilty, either way, and so she watches in abject horror as it slowly begins to dawn on Elphaba that no gift, genuine or not, would make her presence here a welcome one.

She dances anyway, though, and Galinda is caught up in how absolutely mortifying it must feel, how hard Elphaba must be biting down on her tongue to resist the urge to cry. She is certainly biting down on her own, jaw so tense it aches. Her movements are jerky, only serving to feed the malicious stares that already follow her everywhere she goes, and she swings her arms out like she is creating a space around her, tangible, a barrier.

Galinda cuts through it, hand extended, resting on Elphaba’s shoulder.

She remembers hearing giggled rumors about how skin so green would surely give you warts the way a toad’s might.

The touch is searing, bright, and Elphaba whips away before Galinda does. She physically restricts herself from reaching again, trying once more, and she disguises that clumsy half reach as a gesture.

Dancing is effortless. Elphaba makes it less so.

Her mind buzzes as she tries to recreate the stilted movements of Elphaba’s dance. None of it feels natural. Even for Elphaba herself, Galinda must imagine that the attempt was cumbersome, awkward like a child’s first steps. She must not know how to dance. It is hardly a profound realization, but to Galinda it feels like one, striking her in the chest with a deep sense of sorrow. Elphaba must not know how to dance, because Galinda cannot picture anyone dancing with her, not willingly. Not like this.

Realistically, she is dancing less with her than at her. It burns her up inside to move like this, shame overwhelming and suffocating. She recalls dancing with Fiyero moments earlier, the twist and turn of his body against hers, how his hand had extended to cup the curved line of her back as he dipped her low. The transient property of desire flickers, and for a moment she imagines scooping Elphaba up in her own hands, touching the rigid line of her spine, teaching it how to bend, easing the tension out.

But Elphaba must hate her, really hate her, and within this moment, Galinda cannot find fault with that.

Elphaba is a surprise, a disturbance in her life. She has been from the beginning. She continues to be now, when jeering starts up and Galinda processes that it is from behind her, not from behind Elphaba, and feels her bottom lip waver.

She looks away, perhaps to save herself the embarrassment. Over her shoulder, students who had cooed at the sight of her dress only hours ago now squint like they cannot believe what they are seeing, and Galinda realizes that the alternative of turning away from Elphaba’s intense stare is hardly much better.

When she returns to her, those dark eyes are closer than before. She realizes only now that Elphaba has taken her glasses off, leaving her face open like the pages of her book that Galinda had purposefully splayed.

It gives her courage, somehow, even as she feels scorching eyes on her back. She carries on, and she has to think, even with her mind so frantic. She must be careful with each movement, but she finds that she does not mind the effort. Not when it means that Elphaba is looking at her like that.

At some point, Galinda takes a step forward. She restrains a wince, half expecting to come to a startling collision with Elphaba, smashing her face into the brim of the hat that still sits perched atop her head.

But Elphaba moves with her, the ebb to her flow. She steps in time, and maybe Galinda should not feel so stunned. She certainly should not grin the way she does, unbridled and open, but if she is a flame, a burning fire fanned by her own hand, Elphaba is like the cool douse of water washing over her bringing relief. As her body twitches back into motion, Galinda perks straight up, and this time, there is something natural to the way Elphaba rolls her arms and lets the ballroom lights shimmer along the expanse of her skin, more of it than Galinda has ever seen peeking past her simple black dress. She still feels stilted while attempting to follow her, but she lets the discomfort settle. She lives with it, just for now, because living with it means Elphaba stays close, and Galinda may not be able to reach out and touch her just yet, but for the rest of the night she chases that singular searing heartbeat from before when her hand cupped Elphaba’s shoulder, yearning to linger.

She forgets Fiyero until he reappears and asks to walk her to her dormitory. Arm already linked with Elphaba’s, she tells him some other time, and he accepts it easily. There is no fight from him, not like the briefly lived protest that Elphaba offers when Galinda reaches to rescind the hat she had given her earlier. It startles her, of course, hearing no, but this time, it does not set her stomach on edge. Instead, it imbues a feeling of fondness so intensely within her that Galinda is not sure she will ever shake it, and with her hand clasped in Elphaba’s now, she does not think she wants to.

Galinda discovers she does not mind Elphaba's endless studying sessions so much, not when she is now included.

Sometimes familiar instincts still flare up. Old habits die hard, after all, and Galinda cannot help herself from pouting when Elphaba is really set on studying practically until the sun comes up, unmoving and perched beside her desk until her shoulders go so stiff that Galinda has to work all the tension out of them for her to be able to move properly again. Any temper tantrums are curbed, though, by small moments like that, where Elphaba finally gives, forfeiting herself into Galinda’s hands.

Other times Elphaba even cracks, peeking at her when she thinks Galinda might not notice. She always does, gleefully grinning and tugging at her arms until Elphaba relents, smiling a little herself.

She finds that she likes touching Elphaba, grasping at her hands or making an excuse to run fingers through her lengthy and often disheveled locks of hair. She is only assisting, only being a good friend, she reasons, as she drags her own seat across their room to scoot it flush against Elphaba’s own. She reads through tomes of sorcery texts with her chin resting on Elphaba’s bony shoulder, leaning her cheek flush against her when it gets late and she grows tired. Strangely, it feels more comfortable than reclining back upon the plush pillows that line her bed.

Galinda supposes in a way that all these little touches are a victory lap, a reward from a game well fought and well played, something she has never known before. That must be what makes them so special. Elphaba resists on occasion, not quite used to the new routine they have developed, but every so often she reaches out on her own.

One time, the rough pad of her thumb extends and brushes a faint line from beneath Galinda’s eyes down the slope of her cheek. She shivers as Elphaba apologizes, sorry, stray eyelash. The way Elphaba touches her is always so delicate, far frailer than Galinda would have thought her capable of being. Sometimes she ponders whether is intentional, if Elphaba thinks she might startle away should she press a little too firmly.

She must not understand how badly Galinda wants her to press, how often she contemplates the imaginary sensation of Elphaba’s hand unfurling further, cupping her cheek, tracing her jawline, brushing a tendril of hair away from her forehead.

Galinda has been called naïve many times, airheaded and oblivious, but she is not enough of a dimwit to ignore that whatever she has with Elphaba, undefined and still so new, is decidedly unique. If she were as good with words as Elphaba is, she might try to put a proper term to it all, but she stumbles as she tries to comprehend what it means when each ending of her nerves light up in response to Elphaba relenting, agreeing to let her apply a new coat of lipstick across the sharp line of her mouth. She uses the moment to her advantage, taking the chance to prop her hand up beneath Elphaba’s chin and hold her still.

She feels as though she is taking advantage of her sometimes, voice light and trilling until Elphaba can no longer resist, because really, it stops being about the lipstick or the light dusting of makeup or the unfurling of her hair from its usual braid quite quickly. She tells Elphaba that she is beautiful whenever she is done with her, but she thinks it long before she tousles black tresses in her hands or asks her to purse her lips. She simply is not brave enough to say it, not before she can find an excuse to.

Elphaba does not enjoy much of it, Galinda can tell, and she wishes frequently that she had a better way to justify her constant cravings for closeness. Being forthright with her intentions would make her sound odd, though, and Galinda is still adjusting to the newness of their fragile friendship. She is coming to terms with trying, with having to, registering that for the first time in a while – possibly ever – there is something she wants that she must wait for.

In moments of respite from yearning, Fiyero comes to collect her, and he touches her without waiting, without Galinda having to crave it much at all. He understands what she expects before Galinda tells him; before she hints or explains or insists upon it. Fiyero demands little of her, and so she can relax when he slings an arm over her shoulder and holds her down with heavy weight, absent of the rush of adrenaline that soars in her chest each time Elphaba dares to stray a step closer to her. He is her balance, she decides, to her strangely stubborn roommate.

Her stubborn roommate who smiles at her now, who rolls her eyes undaunted whenever Galinda runs off on a tangent about her future with Fiyero. Galinda should be offended by Elphaba’s blatant disbelief. She should feel a little more nervous than she does when she notices Fiyero gaining a sudden interest in Elphaba, straying from her side on visits to her dormitory to watch curiously as Elphaba scribbles out essays, trying to distract her with inquisitive jabs. She only remembers to be wary, though, when she overhears whispered gossip about his recent intrigue, and…

She feels defensive. Not for the proper reason, but from then on Galinda grasps Fiyero’s hand a bit more firmly in her own, trying to keep her life divided between the clarity he grants her and the sensation of soaring left in her chest each time she brushes arms with Elphaba, hoping to one day be brave enough to confront the inevitable fall.

Fiyero brings flowers to the train station, and she ignores the way his hand twitches to present them to Elphaba first because she deserves them, far more than Galinda herself does.

He realizes his mistake, blanching, but Galinda bestows the bouquet upon Elphaba inevitably anyway, nudging the blossoms into her arms. One hand of hers is encased in Fiyero’s hold while the other reaches outwards, another excuse, another reason to hold onto her. Fiyero seems to notice, and he too reaches. Galinda watches his hand fall upon her shoulder and jolts as though she is the one being touched, and she acts rashly because – well.

Because she remembers the rumors, whispered behind raised hands but pointed, nonetheless. Because Elphaba lifts her brows, looking at Fiyero like he has surprised her, and Galinda reflects upon the ballroom, the shimmer of stormy irises. Galinda wants that to be hers, just hers alone.

So she becomes Glinda, the shortened form of her name feeling clumsy in her mouth. She does not spend much time contemplating what is easy for others, not when her own life has been so blessedly simple. At least until now. Now, as she prattles on about Doctor Dillamond and feels both ingenuine and successful because although it certainly would be easier for their professor to speak her name, Glinda only cares for the way it takes shape in Elphaba’s voice, the tentative exploration of it like the turning of a new page in a book.

Fiyero sounds daunted, and for the first time she sees confusion swimming in his eyes when she looks at him. Complexities cannot exist between them, though, and so she doubles down, pretending. She manages to carve out something simple for herself to navigate at least for a few more moments.

It crumbles in her hold when Fiyero leaves her, and though she is not specifically sad to see him go, Glinda’s eyes well up with tears regardless as his absence reminds her of Elphaba’s impending departure. It all collects, heaping around her, and suddenly Glinda realizes that this is not easy, not how she wants it to be. Elphaba is about to be whisked off to the Emerald City and Glinda will stay, complacent and frozen, perfectly predictable.

Being so devastated makes no sense, not for a girl who has only ever anticipated regularity, aspiring towards it. Still, she cries as though something has struck her suddenly, and whatever sense Elphaba makes of her sudden outburst, she quells it in the form of arms laced around her back.

Glinda sniffles into her shoulder when Elphaba extends the offer.

Come with me.

She leaps, then. She does not know just how far the ensuing descent will take her.

There is barely ground to stand on, but Glinda chases after her anyway.

Impossibly, Elphaba manages to glide as she flees. She is fleeting, ephemeral, and Glinda cannot keep up.

She cries for her again because it had halted her before. She wails a genuine call of distress, and Elphaba turns, terrifying her with her proximity. She is close, so close now, a tempest of a storm that Glinda cannot endure.

She tries, hopelessly. At each side she is battered, blown to shreds, frayed at her very edges. She pleads with Elphaba, begging her to go back, because so much has changed since she met her, but Glinda is not ready for this. It takes her too far, teetering her over an edge she did not even know existed until this very moment, and staring it down makes Glinda quiver.

Elphaba assumes she is defending the Wizard, and maybe she is. Maybe none of it matters to her, not this shining city or Oz as a whole, not when Elphaba is within her reach and Glinda finally understands what that means.

You can have all you ever wanted, she tells her, hovering so tantalizingly close. She speaks it like a vow, the very same as the offer Elphaba had extended to her when they stood entangled on the train platform, rumbling like a thunderclap vibrating beneath their feet. She prays she will understand.

Elphaba can have all she wants, all Glinda has to give, because Glinda desires her. Because Glinda wants Elphaba to want her, just as desperately, willing to doom herself for the sake of it.

I know, Elphaba confesses. In the end, it is not enough.

Elphaba wants – no, needs – more than her, more than what Glinda is. It is a revelation that shakes her to her core, agony spiraling outward.

Underneath them, the floor trembles again.

The vibrations coax her into Elphaba’s grasp, and just for a while Glinda lets herself feel the entirety of it. Elphaba is not restraining herself now the way she always used to. She reaches with reckless abandon and Glinda loses herself in the vigor of it, the grand magnitude of Elphaba herself making her believe, just for an instant, that this is a space she can live within.

Selfishly, Glinda aches to hold her still. If she can keep her in place just long enough, the guards may break past the barrier they have crafted, flooding in and sweeping them both away. They would be together at least, with no grand delusions, no beliefs that stretch just beyond the boundaries of all that Glinda is.

Elphaba pushes her, though, just as she always does, outside of where she is comfortable. She nudges her back, a single crack of distance between them, and a chasm opens. Everything pours loose from her, every single idiotic hope, and temporarily she makes herself believe faithfully enough in Elphaba to be daring. The snag of a broomstick’s wooden surface beneath her hands makes her shake, though, and when she blinks, it is no longer there.

Elphaba looks at her like she knows, and then she will not look at her at all, gaze distant no matter how Glinda tries to hold it. One small mercy is afforded, finally, when Elphaba closes her eyes.

Glinda knows she will not breach the limit set in front of her, but she leans just close enough to risk tearing herself in two. 

Of course, only she remains rooted to the ground. Elphaba rises above her, and Glinda collapses into a downpour, steady streams of tears overtaking her body. The rough clutches of the guards around her shoulders and the forceful motion of her wriggling torso is nothing like the gentle exhale she had left against Elphaba’s lips, but sensation is all she is left to feel as a chorus of shrieks boom in her ears.

Wicked, they call her. Glinda screams until her throat goes hoarse, a feeble protest, the sound lost in the crowd.

Glinda goes back to what is simplest, afterwards.

Guided through a daze, she sits silently and listens to begin with. A story is spun, one she knows to be untrue, but when the Wizard looks expectantly upon her, she remembers with crystalline clarity how quickly the flames of rebellion were stomped out beneath his boots.

Some cinders still smolder, though. Oz chitters about her, the wicked witch, and Glinda draws a halfhearted comparison to the way Shiz would sneer at the very mention of her name. It is much worse now as the days draw on, no sight of her left to behold at all. When people are given the chance to let their dissent fester, it boils into something dangerous, hatred so bright that it is blinding. The Emerald City shines, its dazzling hues a reminder of what she has lost.

Elphaba evades the wrath of the citizens of Oz, at least. She can be grateful for that. Glinda, however, remains encased, a songbird with pretty feathers and an even sweeter voice.

Madame Morrible coaches her to lift it, tells her just which song she must sing to placate the Ozians who cry out for justice. They will never get it, but Glinda listens. She tries to soothe them, if first only so that the jeers die down enough to let her breathe. Given something to put passion behind, they are surprisingly conformist.

She supposes she is, too.

It brings her relief, the distraction she becomes for them. If she smiles widely enough, sometimes they will forget all about Elphaba, dazzled and delighted. Her face feels stretched, contorted in a way that is not her own. Over her shoulder, Madame Morrible watches, and just past hers the Wizard looms.

Just as she had done in the Oz Dust ballroom, Glinda draws focus away from Elphaba as thoroughly as she can. At the behest of the Wizard, she spearheads celebrations meant to distract from the fact that the wicked witch has outsmarted him, that she still does so for as long as she avoids capture.

Glinda does not think about what they will do to her if they ever find her. She cannot bear to.

Inconsequential holidays become grand occasions. Glinda makes appearances at operas, wrapped in the most magnificent dresses that the Wizard can provide. She stands apart from everyone, a figure on the horizon meant to be adored, because if she is beloved enough, no one will have time to remember Elphaba.

She remembers her. Of course she remembers her.

Fiyero is brought to her like an offering, arriving by train somber and still. Enough time at her side stirs him into action, and whether it is for her sake or his own, he takes a position as one of the Wizard’s guards. She pretends not to feel familiar with the hopeful glint in his eyes any time Elphaba is mentioned, jealous that he is allowed to look so eager.

Together they are perfect, propped up like a set piece, and when she kisses him, it is because it is easy, not because she wants to. Maybe the distinction is not so important. He is exactly as she expects him to be, the sensation simple. She can anticipate how his lips will feel on her own, smooth with little give, and when she leans close and sees his chin dotted with stubble, she prepares for the subtle scratch of it on her face, bearing it like any burden.

Each time she draws back from him, her eyes flit about, looking for something more.

A flaw, maybe, she thinks at first, something to make him less blatantly appealing. She does not want him, a realization that is distinctly bleak, but he is tolerable. He is kind to her, and at his side, she never feels the sort of stomach dropping thrill she had come to anticipate when Elphaba was nearby. A flaw might make it easier to resent him, to let her own bitterness build and carry her away, faulting Fiyero for not being perfect enough.

But it is not about him, truthfully. Really, as her eyes follow the curve of his mouth, she finds herself focused on the memory of Elphaba's constantly chapped lips. She was always chewing on them, concentrating fiercely while studying for whatever sorcery exam she had to anticipate next. Glinda had become acquainted with their uneven surface, peppering them in lipstick, watching them encircle words and chants that Glinda always found too troublesome to remember.

It feels dangerous, that simple recollection, and her body tenses like it is warning her, but Glinda lets herself indulge in it anyway. It is not real, dubious and illusionary, and now she truly comes to peace with the understanding that the world no longer bends to her whims, to her desires. She imagines Elphaba with her, close enough to catch the wavering exhale of Glinda's breath between her teeth. Her eyelids flutter as she contemplates the texture of her lips, whether they might part if Glinda pressed her own to them, and she digs her nails into crescent moon shaped imprints along the skin of her palm to give the false impression of fangs sinking in, tearing her ragged, too. It is as exhilarating as it is impossible. She kisses Fiyero to forget, like there is anything to forget.

Easy, Glinda reminds herself, clutching the collar of his suit in her hands, silk gloves barring her from feeling the fabric of it. Easy. She can repeat the word like a mantra until it becomes just that. She can coo about her marriage and her future and her supposed happiness like she cares, like it is the most genuine truth in the world.

The only sight that the Ozians spread below her witness is one that makes them swoon. Glinda leans into her fiancé’s grasp, and should a single person in the crowd manage to hear the sigh that emanates from her when they part, it will be understood as one of bliss.

They celebrate their engagement. When night falls, they retreat to separate rooms.

Glinda knows Fiyero does not love her, and some small part of her laments it, though truly she has no right to. She herself does not love him, but she could grow to love being loved, she tells herself, convinced that this mourning must have an end. Neither of them are happy, but Glinda grows frantic enough to grasp for any inkling of cheer the more time wears on.

Her temper wavers. In private, she can get away with being irritable. In the face of the public, even, the scrunched-up face of contempt she airs out when she can no longer resist the urge to let her lip turn can at least be misconstrued as distaste for Elphaba, for the animals that she gathers, for each shred of news that comes her way regarding them.

Eventually, the Wizard closes the bars of her cage in tighter around her. It is Fiyero’s outbursts that lose her the right to hear about the most recent sightings of the wicked witch, and for that she does resent him. She resents Elphaba, even, for the fact that she had shown herself just once, appearing long enough in front of Fiyero and his fellow guards that he had come back to the Emerald City imbued with enough righteous fury to boldly suggest calling off the hunt for her altogether.

The Wizard will not stop, of course, not when there is blood in the water. With Elphaba’s scent fresh, a trail splayed out for him to follow, he only becomes more frantic, as does Glinda herself.

She bickers with Fiyero, and he calls her selfish, jabbing an accusatory finger right towards the spot where a heavy gemstone necklace laces around her throat. It hurts because it is true. He tells her that at least he is trying to find her, and that burns a line of fire down her throat.

She does not want to be found, Glinda insists. What she means to tell him is that she cannot be found, because Glinda cannot face her, not like this. Because the Wizard and Madame Morrible pace with plans for her capture, her defeat, her downfall, and Glinda sits and says nothing at all.

Tears used to accompany such musings and plots, anticipatory and panicked. Now, Glinda is numb enough to their presence that she can blink them away so swiftly that no one will see. Obedience becomes a virtue. So long as she is complacent, she will erase Fiyero’s mistakes, privy to what the Wizard intends for Elphaba, and perhaps the next time she has her within her reach, Glinda will not be foolish enough to let her go.

She is granted a chance. She takes it without thought.

Desperation shakes her, and she is well acquainted enough with the unique cruelty of the Wizard and Madame Morrible both, but –

But Fiyero was taken days ago, imprisoned after turning on his fellow guards. Glinda thought him a fool for believing he could change this, that he could hold fate within his own hands, but now that he is gone, no one can ward her from making the very same move. No one is left, either, to fight for Elphaba in his place.

A miscalculation from the moment she speaks it, Glinda stirs a storm with a single tip of her hand.

Her sister.

It brings Elphaba to her physically, but as she hunches, heartbroken, above all that remains of Nessa’s corpse, the gravity of what she has done strikes Glinda square in the chest.

There is only one of them who truly deserves to bear the title of wicked.

Glinda goes to her when time finally runs short.

Elphaba condemns herself to her fate after Nessa dies, and Glinda discovers her coiled like a snake ready to strike once she descends the stairs into her hideout. A flash of fangs, long ago, had sent a shiver down Glinda’s spine. The sensation returns now, though its context has changed entirely.

She postures like an animal caged, backed into a corner with nowhere to go. Glinda’s heart throbs at the sight of it, at the shared anguish she feels and wishes she could explain, but more than that, it aches to recognize her presence here through the perspective of Elphaba’s distrustful eyes. She has become a threat, unrecognizable and marred.

Absolving herself is impossible now, that much Glinda understands, but she extends a hand regardless, weeping, Elphie. Elphie, they are coming for you.

There is no easier way to convey it, nothing to cushion the blow. Elphaba knows it just as well as Glinda does. The fire in her gaze seeps outwards in a blink, and suddenly, each line across her face seems more deeply carved. Glinda dares to move forward to smooth them and Elphaba shudders underneath her touch, finally allowing herself to be frail.

Glinda attempts to hold her together, first tenderly cupping her cheeks and then cradling her against her own body, bracing her for the impact of the inevitable.

Bracing both of them for it. She is here alongside Elphaba, after all, and Glinda is willing to let all of Oz to curse her if it means she can keep holding onto Elphaba, so close to her chest that she is certain she can hear every last thrumming heartbeat.

They have come to a conclusion, she and Elphaba, and Glinda believes herself ready for it. Her days of desperation within the Emerald City are laid to waste, only wreckage now, pointless. Remorse weighs her down, dragging at her limbs, but Glinda fights against its heavy pull. Elphaba has always had a way of making her feel as though she is floating, after all.

Except now, when Elphaba responds to her touch by pulling their clasped hands close to her chest, Glinda is granted the distinct sensation of falling, tumbling back into a void of empty space. She should be grounded. She steadies her gaze, making sure it meets Glinda’s.

After everything she has done, Elphaba still wishes to spare her.

Glinda refuses. She attempts to. She shakes her head ferociously. She clings even harder, losing feeling in her fingers from the strength of her hold. She cries as Elphaba begs for a promise. She is so tired of keeping secrets, but Elphaba asks for just one more.

This time, Elphaba does not urge Glinda to come with her. She has already been granted too many chances to do so.

They’ll turn against you, Elphaba warns her. In the distance, the Emerald City flickers in verdant hues. Glinda only has eyes for her, though. It has always been her.

She fights back with her own bargaining, her own insistence, a futile effort come much too late. She will tell them, every single Ozian, she will scream the truth from the skies, a songbird finally freed.

But none of it will matter, the sound of her confession deafened by the fervor she herself had a hand in.

Glinda has seen it before, but Elphaba has lived it. She knows it intimately.

Elphaba makes her promise, makes her swear up and down, and Glinda gives into it not because she wants to, but because she cannot bear to deny Elphaba one final time. If this is all she can give, then she must give it, relenting even as it rends her apart. Elphaba places her faith in Glinda’s shaking hands, and this time, Glinda must be brave enough to keep herself from breaking it.

There is peace to be found, however temporary, in the way Elphaba’s brow finally goes slack with relief. She looks serene with a sense of finality, startling yet so stunning at the same time, and when Elphaba shifts to shove her tome of spells into Glinda’s waiting hands, she lets herself be selfish just once more.

Kissing Elphaba is nothing like what she anticipates it will be. She cascades toward her, frantic and full of trembling devotion, and she regrets not showing her such a thing sooner. Salty tears pool at the edges of her mouth, dripping downward, and it is not beautiful, but Glinda holds nothing back.

Knowing that she is loved in return makes it worse. She wants it, yearns for it just as much as she hopes that Elphaba will reel back and rebuff her, because Glinda deserves none of the devotion that she displays. Elphaba parts from her only with the intent of colliding again, covering her face in administrations both feather light and ferocious. She kisses her forehead, the swell of her cheeks, brushing her lips against whatever skin she can reach.

Elphaba kisses her like she is saying farewell. When the curtain falls, the ghost of her touch vanishes, snuffed out like the last light of a dying candle. The smoke that lingers stings her eyes.

Good news, Glinda declares. Two short words. They are the hardest ones she has ever spoken.