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Fiyero confounds her.
He never has before. His shallow, self-absorbed facade was paper-thin, transparent to anyone who actually bothered to look for more than a second. But she, more than anyone, knows how little people bother to look beneath the surface.
An unhappy man who catered to the person others wanted him to be, if only because he saw no purpose in being himself. In caring about the world or anyone in it.
It's a skin he shed quickly after that day with the lion cub. Just waiting for someone to pierce the veil and ask for — or demand — more from him.
And then — well, maybe it's not fair to say that Fiyero has never confounded her. She's never understood why he fell in love with her, why he devoted years of his life to searching for her, protecting her, believing in her when he had no reason to.
But his misery never confounded her.
It's his happiness that does.
He walks on wobbled ankles. Doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, doesn't feel the grass beneath his feet or the wind slipping across his skin.
He must still have a heart and a brain in some fashion, because he thinks and he loves. He loves her. Whispers it into her hair each night when they lay down to rest, shares it unprovoked as he watches her eat a simple meal. Even when he doesn't say it, she can see it in his eyes, so new and yet so familiar.
She may never understand why he loves her, but she especially does not understand now. Now, when he seems so utterly content despite it all. Now, when he stares out at the sunset with peace that she has never seen on his face before. Now, when he hums to himself as he helps her set up their makeshift camp, when he weaves rough fingers through her calloused ones, when he smiles softly at her as though it does not even occur to him that he should hate her.
Perhaps he is brainless, or at least brainwashed. Perhaps when he claimed to be under her spell, he meant it literally. Perhaps he is just a fool.
"I know your supply of books is rather low," he says, as she sits by the fire and watches him. It's difficult to be subtle when he is always watching her. "You can take a closer look, if you're itching for something to study."
The corner of his lips curls up. His face is still wonderfully expressive, even like this. It is slightly more difficult to read his moods, but not by much.
She looks down, at the flames, knows she shouldn't say the words on her lips. Knows Fiyero will swipe them away like errant grains of sand.
But she has lived a lifetime of apologies, and does not know how to quit them now. "I'm sorry."
He arches an eyebrow, seeming to rack his thoughts for any offense of the day. As though he has forgotten her greatest offense, even as it sits so plainly between them. "For what?"
"I thought you were through with playing dumb," she chides.
His face softens, quiet growing between them. Though she is a commotion, Elphaba has always preferred silence in her own company. It's a strange sensation to experience silence with someone else, as strange as it is to see Fiyero without a quick retort. Thinking.
"That still troubles you?" That, as if it's nothing. A mere inconvenience, and not the complete upheaval of his entire life, the fundamental changing of everything he is and everything he knows. A living testament to how much she can hurt when she only means to help. "Hey. Come here."
He pats the spot beside him. He would come to her, she knows, if not for the threat of the fire. He's still not altogether fond of fire, and she can't blame him.
"Fae," he sighs, gesturing toward her, and the name melts her as it always does. She'd trembled the first time it slipped from his mouth, casual and offhanded. Tenderness is still a thing she has to work to accept; it does not come naturally. "Come here, please."
That time, she listens, settling against the tree trunk he is propped against. Fiyero wastes no time in gathering her to him, stuffed arms encircling her, her head on his shoulder. He feels different, but the core of him is still there, all warmth and sunlight. Even if his actual body has no temperature, it radiates through him.
His mouth brushes against the top of her head. "You said I was beautiful," he murmurs. There's no hurt to it, only a gentle reminder.
"You are," Elphaba whispers, meaning it. Perhaps she's blinded by love, but that makes her no different than him. People have found her fascinating, abhorrent, cursed. Rarely have they ever praised her beauty the way Fiyero does, in every look, every touch, every word. "But I wasn't good enough. I should have-."
"No, none of that," he says, before she can even properly dig into her self-loathing. Her fingers curl into his arm, meeting little resistance, but the touch is grounding all the same. "I'm alive, and so are you. I'm happy."
"You shouldn't be."
He leans back a bit, frowns. "You're troubled because I'm happy?"
Elphaba winces. She has never known what to say. The right word at the right moment escapes her. "No. Only — confusified."
Understands falls over his features. Her words trip and fail, but he always seems to hear the words she doesn't say. She doesn't know how he makes sense of them, even before she does.
He is happy, and she is happy to have him safe and alive. But she is not the one who has sacrificed everything for his sake. And if she can't understand his happiness, then what's to stop it from dissipating like the clouds after a storm?
That's what she dreads. Waking up one morning to see Fiyero staring at her the way he should. Not with love and joy, but with hatred and disgust. The same look she has already seen on countless faces.
It has always been bearable on theirs, but not on his. It will kill her, on his.
Fiyero looks down at her, his hand coming up to caress her cheek. Too carefully, afraid to scratch her, to mar her skin. He is always so careful with her.
"Fae," he says, patiently, like this is a conversation they have already had many times. Or perhaps he just knows how often it has lived in her thoughts. "I knew I was going to die. When I told you to go. I knew how my story would end. And you know what hurt the most?"
Her chest tightens, and she blinks back the warmth in her eyes. She sees it far too often, even now, every time she tries to sleep. The blows that landed heavily on his flesh, destroying him, the burns of the ropes binding his wrists. The cruel taunts about how he would die alone, in vain, entirely forgotten.
For years, she questioned whether she still had a heart. But she knows she does, because it breaks. Over and over and over again. "Don't," she pleads, gripping him more tightly.
He tips up her chin, stares into her eyes. "It was knowing that I'd never see you again," he says, unwavering. "That I would never…see that little expression on your face when you're annoyed, or hear your voice when you're lecturing me about something."
A tear falls on her cheek, hot and desperate. He wipes it away, and she leans into it. She doesn't care if he scratches her. He feels very much like the only thing holding her together.
"I'd only just found you, and we had so little time together. It seemed so…unjust. I promised you always. To protect you, always. To love you, always. And I'd failed. You would be alive, but alone."
The thought sears. For that brief moment, before she'd received word that he was alive, she recalls how close she'd come to burning down the world and everything in it. She could hardly have caused more pain being wicked than attempting to be good.
"But we're here," he says, his voice lifting, determined. "I have forever to look at you. You will never, ever be alone. And if you think I am anything but grateful for that, then you truly have no idea how much I love you."
Elphaba laughs, tearfully, not sure how else to exorcise the overwhelming emotion that swells in her. It doesn't settle her guilt entirely — she doesn't know how anything ever would, unless she finds a way to restore his flesh and blood. But it soothes her for the moment.
"That was a very well-constructed argument," she says, and he grins.
"Thank you," he responds, sounding proud.
She swallows. "I love you." She is not quite as free with the words as he is. It feels so profound, so earth-shattering every time she says it, and Fiyero treats it as such. But she wants it to be easier. Wants it to become second nature, to show her devotion to him in a thousand little ways for the rest of their lives, if they are lucky enough to have that time. "I'm going to find a way."
He nods. "If it's possible, I know you'll figure it out," he says with a half smile. "But until then-."
"You're happy," she finishes, placing a hand on his chest. "I know. I understand now, I think."
"Good." He tilts his head, and Elphaba closes the distance to press their lips together. For all that it feels different, she doesn't particularly mind. Because she feels Fiyero, feels his adoration and affection, and it's so much more than she has ever had before.
For now, and for always, it's enough.