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Shiz has a way of making everything feel theatrical.
Even the air.
Even the hallways at dusk, when the lanterns wake up one by one and the windows turn the lake into a sheet of hammered copper and the whole university hums like it’s holding a note.
Elphaba is trying very hard to hate it.
She’s failing, mostly because Galinda is skipping down the corridor like she personally invented joy.
“Do not look at me like that,” Elphaba says, shoulder braced against the stone as Galinda approaches. “You’re going to sprain something.”
Galinda slows, offended in the way only a person who has never been told “no” by the universe can be offended. “First of all,” she says, lifting her chin, “I have never sprained anything in my entire life.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
“It absolutely is.” Galinda slides into Elphaba’s space like a secret, like she belongs there—like the corridor is theirs and everyone else is simply… renting. “Second of all,” she adds, lowering her voice, “I have brought you an offering.”
Elphaba’s eyes narrow immediately. “I don’t accept offerings.”
“You accept mine.”
“I tolerate yours.”
“You crave mine.”
Elphaba opens her mouth to argue and Galinda—cheater, menace, sparkling little tyrant—presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth first, quick and warm, a well-aimed distraction.
“Elphie,” she murmurs, all honey, “I found a treat. A little sweet thing. A tiny dessert. A morsel. A—”
“Galinda.”
Galinda beams and produces a small paper parcel like she’s unveiling a crown jewel. The paper is cream with a ribbon tied around it, and of course it is. Of course Galinda’s snacks come gift-wrapped, like everything she touches is eligible for a parade.
“I had to bribe the dining hall woman,” Galinda whispers, as if confessing to a crime. “Which is ridiculous because I am obviously charming for free, but she insisted on payment. So I paid her. With my kindness. And also coins.”
Elphaba folds her arms. “This is absolutely from the dessert cart.”
“And?”
“And the dessert cart is a roulette wheel.”
Galinda gasps, scandalized. “Rude. It is a curated selection of confections and delights.”
“It is a sugar trap.”
“It is a love language.”
Elphaba tries to keep her expression stony. She loses, because Galinda’s eyes are so bright it’s almost indecent, and because she’s holding the parcel between them like it’s sacred, like feeding Elphaba is a holy rite. Like nourishment is intimacy.
Elphaba sighs. “Fine.”
Galinda’s grin is instant. “Yes! I knew you’d see reason.”
“I see blackmail.”
“You see romance.”
Elphaba gives in and takes the parcel. It’s warm in her hands, still faintly heated from the kitchen. She unwraps it, and inside is a small, delicate pastry—golden, glossy, sprinkled with a fine dusting of sugar that catches the lanternlight like snow.
There’s a drizzle of something darker across the top, and a sticky shine at the edges.
“See?” Galinda says, pleased. “Pretty. Like me. But edible.”
Elphaba’s mouth twitches. “That is… an unhinged thing to say.”
“You love me. You’re stuck with it.”
Elphaba looks at the pastry again. It smells like caramel and butter and something roasted, maybe. Something rich.
Her stomach gives the smallest, traitorous clench of hunger. She’d skipped lunch. She’d had lectures, then a debate with Boq that turned into a moral crisis, then she’d spent an hour in the library pretending she wasn’t reading the same page over and over because she could feel Galinda’s absence like a bruise.
She breaks off a piece.
Galinda watches her like this is the highlight of her week.
Elphaba eats it.
It’s sweet—too sweet, the way Galinda likes—then it deepens into something warm and toasted. The caramel hits first, then a little salt, and then—
Then her brain goes cold.
That toasted note sharpens into a memory she doesn’t want: childhood kitchens, careless hands, a rash blooming across skin, her throat tightening like a fist.
Elphaba stops chewing.
Galinda’s smile falters. “Is it bad? It’s not bad. It can’t be bad, I watched the woman make it and she looked—”
Elphaba swallows, because she has to, because panic is worse if you don’t. The swallow feels thicker than it should. Like it has to push past something that isn’t there.
She tastes it again. The aftertaste.
Roasted.
Ground.
Oily.
“Galinda,” Elphaba says, and her voice comes out too even, too careful. “What’s in this.”
Galinda blinks. “Sugar and happiness and my devotion—”
“Galinda.”
“Oh.” Galinda’s gaze flicks down to the pastry, then back to Elphaba. “It’s… it’s like a little praline thing? I think? It’s caramel and— and some kind of— oh!” Her face lights up, triumphant. “It’s got crushed peanuts in the filling, I remember because I thought ‘peanuts, how quaint, like a little rustic commoner nut—’”
Elphaba’s world tilts.
Her heartbeat slams into her ribs.
She’s already putting the pastry down, already wiping her fingers on the paper like she can erase the mistake.
Galinda is still talking, still in her own bright orbit, until she notices the way Elphaba’s shoulders have gone rigid. The way her eyes have gone wide and distant, like she’s staring past the corridor and into something else.
“Elphie?” Galinda’s voice drops. “Elphie, what—”
“Peanuts,” Elphaba says, and her throat feels… strange. Not wrong yet. Not fully. But a warning. A tightening thread.
Galinda laughs once, reflexive. “Yes, I said that, I—”
Elphaba grabs Galinda’s wrist.
Not hard. Not angry. Just urgent.
Galinda’s laughter dies.
“Elphaba,” Galinda says, and the use of her full name is like a bell rung in panic. “What’s happening.”
Elphaba drags in a breath. The breath scrapes.
Her skin starts to prickle. A heat spreads across her chest and neck, like a blush turned poisonous. She can already feel it—hives rising under her collarbone, under her jaw. A swelling sensation in her lips, subtle but unmistakable, like her body is trying to close doors that should stay open.
“I’m allergic,” Elphaba says. “To peanuts.”
Galinda stares at her.
Then, very softly: “What.”
Elphaba swallows again. It’s harder. Like her throat is narrowing one millimeter at a time.
“I’m allergic,” she repeats, and this time there’s no room for anything but truth. “I have an epipen. In my bag. Get it.”
Galinda doesn’t move. Her face is blank with shock, like her mind is refusing to translate the words into meaning.
“Elphie,” she whispers, almost childlike. “You’re— you’re joking. You’re—”
“Galinda.” Elphaba squeezes her wrist. “Now.”
Something in Galinda’s eyes cracks into motion.
Her breath stutters. “Okay. Okay. Bag. Your bag. Where is your bag.”
Elphaba points with a shaky hand toward the bench along the wall, where her satchel sits abandoned like an afterthought. The corridor is suddenly too bright, too loud. Students pass at the far end, laughing about something stupid and normal, and Elphaba wants to scream at them that the world is not safe, that nothing is guaranteed, that her body is turning traitor in real time.
Galinda bolts for the satchel.
She fumbles with the clasp like the leather has become unfamiliar, like her fingers have forgotten how to be fingers.
“Elphie, I can’t— I can’t— it’s— why does this have so many pockets?” Galinda’s voice is rising. “Why do you have so many pockets? This is a crime, Elphaba, this is—”
“Front pocket,” Elphaba says, forcing the words through a tightening throat. “Small pouch. Green.”
Galinda yanks it open.
Elphaba presses her back harder into the wall, like she can anchor herself. Her breathing is getting louder inside her own skull. There’s a wheeze now, faint but creeping in.
Her tongue feels thick.
Her heart is hammering like it’s trying to break out.
Galinda’s hands shake as she pulls out a small cylindrical device.
She stares at it, horrified. “This— this is real. This is real.”
“It’s real,” Elphaba says, and she hates how calm she sounds because it makes the panic more obvious in everything else—her body, her breath, the way her vision is starting to blur at the edges.
Galinda looks up at her with a face full of dawning terror. “Why didn’t you tell me.”
Elphaba tries to shrug. It’s a joke, almost. When would it have come up? Between political arguments and stolen kisses and Galinda talking about hair accessories like they’re a matter of national security?
But there’s no air for jokes.
“There wasn’t… time,” Elphaba manages. “Galinda. Epi. Now.”
Galinda rushes back to her, device held like a weapon she’s afraid to use.
“Elphie, I— I don’t know how—”
“You do,” Elphaba says, and her voice catches on the last word. She coughs—one sharp cough that tastes like fear. “You’ve seen the posters. Blue end to the sky. Orange end to the thigh. You— you press and hold.”
Galinda’s eyes fill immediately. “I’m going to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” Elphaba says. “I need it.”
Galinda drops to her knees in front of her like prayer.
Elphaba’s vision swims. The corridor tilts again. Her skin is on fire. She can feel hives crawling across her throat, across her cheekbones. Her lips—yes, swollen now. The air feels thick, like she’s trying to breathe through cloth.
Galinda grips the epipen so tightly her knuckles go white.
“Elphie,” she whispers, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t know, I didn’t—”
Elphaba’s hand finds the back of Galinda’s neck, grounding, and she hates that it takes effort, hates that her own body is turning every movement into a labor. “Galinda,” she says, as steady as she can. “Look at me.”
Galinda does. Her eyes are huge and wet, mascara already threatening. Her mouth trembles like she’s holding in a sob.
Elphaba swallows painfully. “Do it.”
Galinda nods too fast. “Okay. Okay. Where— where—”
“Outer thigh,” Elphaba says. “Under my skirt,”
Galinda’s hands hover, uncertain, like she’s afraid to touch her wrong and make her shatter. Then she grabs Elphaba’s skirt fabric at the side and presses the orange end against her thigh.
Her hands are shaking so badly the device clicks against bone.
“Elphie,” she sobs. “Elphie, I’m—”
“Now,” Elphaba rasps.
Galinda presses.
There’s a sharp sting, immediate and deep, like a wasp bite with purpose. Elphaba flinches, a sound escaping her that is half pain, half relief.
“Hold,” Elphaba says, breath hitching.
Galinda holds, counting aloud like she’s casting a spell. “One— two— three— four— five— six— seven— eight— nine— ten—”
She pulls it away like it’s burning her.
Elphaba’s legs feel weak. Her hands are cold. Her heart is racing even faster now—adrenaline flooding her system like a dam breaking.
Galinda looks at the used epipen in her hand, then at Elphaba’s face, and her expression crumples.
“I did this,” she whispers.
“No,” Elphaba tries to say, but it comes out rough. She coughs again. The wheeze is still there, but—there’s a thin slice of air now, slipping in easier than before. The tightness is still present, but it’s no longer a closing fist. It’s a hand easing, slowly.
Galinda’s tears spill fully. She makes a small, broken sound and lunges forward, wrapping her arms around Elphaba’s waist like she’s trying to physically keep her in the world.
Elphaba’s arms come around her automatically, protective even when she’s the one collapsing. Her fingers press into the back of Galinda’s hair, feeling the silk of curls, the familiar scent of perfume and soap and sugar.
Galinda is shaking. “I’m so sorry,” she says into Elphaba’s stomach. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so—”
Elphaba breathes in.
And out.
Each breath is still work, but the work is possible.
“Galinda,” she murmurs, voice scratchy. “Listen.”
Galinda pulls back just enough to look up at her, face streaked.
Elphaba tries to blink the blur away. “We need… help,” she says. “Someone needs to get… a healer. Or send for— for emergency. The epi buys time, it doesn’t— it doesn’t finish it.”
Galinda’s eyes go wide again, panic re-sparking. “Oh my Gods— okay— okay—”
She looks around wildly, spotting a couple of students at the far end of the corridor.
“You!” Galinda snaps, and her voice—her voice changes. It sharpens into something commanding, something that makes the air snap to attention. “You with the stupid hat. Go get a healer now. Tell them it’s anaphylaxis. Go!”
The student blanches and sprints.
“And you,” Galinda says, pointing at another, “run to the nearest faculty office and tell them to send for a carriage. Now.”
The second student bolts.
Galinda turns back to Elphaba like she’s been snapped on a string.
“Elphie,” she says, urgent, trembling. “Stay with me. Talk to me. Breathe. Please breathe.”
Elphaba tries to smile. It feels like dragging her mouth through mud. “I’m breathing.”
“Not enough,” Galinda says fiercely, wiping tears with the heel of her hand. “Do more. Do it prettier.”
Elphaba huffs a laugh that turns into a cough. “You can’t— aesthetic— a medical emergency.”
“I can and I will,” Galinda says, and the humor is cracked but real, desperation dressing itself up as wit because it doesn’t know what else to do. “You are not allowed to die in a hallway. It’s tacky.”
Elphaba’s eyes sting, not entirely from allergy. “I’m not—”
Her throat tightens again, a reminder, a threat.
Galinda’s hands fly to her cheeks, gentle, terrified. “Elphie.”
Elphaba closes her eyes and focuses on the sensation of Galinda’s palms—warm, steadying. She lets herself lean into it.
“I’m here,” Elphaba says. “I’m here.”
Galinda nods frantically. “Okay. Okay. Tell me what to do. Tell me everything. Tell me— do you have another epipen? Do we need another? Should I— should I—”
“Elphaba breathes,” and she forces herself to keep it measured. “Sometimes… a second is needed,” she says. “If symptoms… come back. But— we wait. We watch. If I can’t breathe… you do it again.”
Galinda’s face collapses at the thought. “I can’t. I can’t do it again.”
“You can,” Elphaba says, and her voice is steadier now, the adrenaline giving her a strange, sharp clarity. “You just did.”
Galinda shakes her head hard. “I did it badly. I feel like a murderer.”
“You did it like you love me.”
That lands like a punch.
Galinda makes a sound—half sob, half laugh that doesn’t know where to go—and presses her forehead against Elphaba’s.
“I love you,” she whispers, raw. “I love you so much I feel sick. I love you and I almost—”
“Hey,” Elphaba says, and her voice is gentler than the corridor deserves. “Look at me.”
Galinda does, eyes shining.
“This isn’t your fault,” Elphaba says. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” Galinda says, furious with herself. “I should have asked. I should have— I feed you things all the time. I just— I just assumed the world was safe for you because you’re— because you’re you.”
Elphaba swallows, throat still tender. “The world isn’t safe.”
“I know,” Galinda whispers. “I know, I know, I know. But I wanted— I wanted at least dessert to be safe.”
Elphaba’s eyes burn.
She lifts a trembling hand and wipes at Galinda’s cheek, smearing tears. “I’m okay,” she lies, because okay is a staircase and she’s only on the first step, but she is moving upward. “I’m getting there.”
Footsteps pound down the corridor. A healer in pale robes arrives, breathless, bag in hand, eyes immediately assessing.
“Anaphylaxis?” the healer asks, already kneeling, already checking Elphaba’s pulse with practiced calm.
Galinda’s voice breaks. “Yes. Peanut. I— I used her epipen. Just now. She’s— she’s—”
The healer nods. “Good. You did well.”
Galinda laughs sharply, disbelieving. “Did I?”
“You did,” the healer says, firm. “You saved time. Now we stabilize.”
Hands move. Questions get asked. Elphaba answers what she can, head fuzzy, body buzzing, throat sore. The healer checks her breathing, examines the hives, gives her something bitter under her tongue, and instructs that she needs observation—needs to be watched, because reactions can rebound.
Somewhere in the chaos, Galinda doesn’t let go of Elphaba’s hand.
Not once.
When a carriage arrives—when Elphaba is guided carefully inside, wrapped in a blanket like she’s suddenly made of glass—Galinda climbs in after her without being told. Like it’s not a choice. Because it isn’t really.
The ride is a blur of lanternlight and cobblestones and Galinda’s trembling fingers interlaced with hers.
Elphaba’s heart is still racing, but her breathing is easier now. The swelling in her throat has eased to a bruised ache. The hives fade in patches, leaving behind tender skin that feels like it’s been scalded.
Galinda watches her like she’s watching a candle in wind.
At the infirmary, the healer insists on a bed, insists on monitoring, insists on calm.
Galinda sits at Elphaba’s bedside like a sentry, posture rigid, eyes red-rimmed.
Elphaba is so, so tired. The kind of tired that sinks into bone. Like her body ran a marathon while her soul watched from the sidelines, horrified.
When the worst of it passes—when the room stops feeling like it’s tilting—Elphaba opens her eyes to find Galinda still staring at her hand like she’s afraid it might vanish.
“Hey,” Elphaba croaks.
Galinda’s face crumples instantly. “Hey,” she whispers back, as if speaking too loud might break the spell that kept Elphaba here.
Elphaba shifts, wincing. Everything aches. Even her eyelids.
Galinda wipes her cheeks again, but the tears keep coming, quiet and relentless. “I can’t stop,” she says, voice thick. “I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing. I’m being— I’m being dramatic.”
“You’re being human,” Elphaba says.
Galinda laughs wetly. “I’m being a disaster.”
Elphaba’s mouth tugs upward. “You’ve always been a disaster.”
“Excuse you,” Galinda says, then dissolves again. “Elphie, I— I really thought I was going to lose you.”
Elphaba’s throat tightens, but this time it’s emotion, not swelling. “You didn’t.”
“But I almost—” Galinda swallows hard. “I keep replaying it. Your face. The way you looked at me like— like you were already halfway gone and you were still trying to teach me how to save you.”
Elphaba’s fingers curl around hers. Weak, but intentional. “I wasn’t halfway gone.”
“You were,” Galinda whispers, fierce. “You were, and you still— you still told me what to do. You still— you still trusted me.”
Elphaba’s eyes soften. “Of course I did.”
Galinda bows her head, forehead pressing to Elphaba’s knuckles. Her shoulders shake.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, quieter, smaller. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry I fed you poison.”
Elphaba exhales, long and shaky.
“Galinda,” she says, and her voice is a rasp, but it carries. “Listen to me.”
Galinda looks up, eyes glossy.
“This allergy…” Elphaba swallows carefully. “It’s mine. It’s my stupid body. My stupid risk. I should have told you.”
Galinda’s mouth opens to argue.
Elphaba squeezes her hand. “I should have,” she repeats. “I didn’t want you to look at me like I’m fragile. I didn’t want… one more thing about me to be… complicated.”
Galinda’s expression twists with pain. “Elphie.”
Elphaba stares at the ceiling for a moment, blinking hard. “I hate needing things,” she admits. “I hate that my life can depend on a little stick in a pouch. I hate—” She stops, breath catching, exhaustion rolling over her like surf. “I hate how easily it can happen.”
Galinda’s voice is so soft it’s almost a lullaby. “I don’t think you’re fragile.”
Elphaba’s eyes flick to hers.
Galinda’s gaze is steady despite the tears. “I think you’re… frighteningly alive,” she says. “Like lightning. Like something the world should be more careful with.”
Elphaba’s throat closes around something tender.
Galinda shifts closer, careful of tubes and blankets, careful like she’s learned the shape of danger in the last hour and is refusing to step on it again.
“Tell me,” Galinda says. “Tell me everything. What you can eat. What you can’t. What it feels like. What to do. When to panic. How to not panic. Give me a list. Give me an entire textbook. I will memorize it. I will become insufferable about it.”
Elphaba huffs a laugh, weak. “You’re already insufferable.”
Galinda nods solemnly. “Yes, but I can become… more. I can be a crusader. A peanut vigilante. A nut detective.”
Elphaba’s smile is small but real.
Then it falters, because the adrenaline is fading and what’s left behind is tremor and soreness and a bone-deep weariness that makes her want to sleep for a year.
Galinda notices immediately. Her eyes soften further, somehow. “You’re crashing,” she whispers.
Elphaba closes her eyes. “Mm.”
Galinda’s fingers comb gently through the hair at Elphaba’s temple, careful not to pull. “I’m here,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to sit right here and I’m going to hold your hand and I’m going to stare at you until you’re rude to me again, okay?”
Elphaba’s lips part, a ghost of a laugh. “That’s… a long time.”
“I am famously patient,” Galinda lies.
Elphaba’s fingers tighten around hers. The squeeze is weak, but it’s there. It says: stay.
Galinda swallows down another wave of tears. “I love you,” she says again, like she’s anchoring the room with it. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Elphaba’s voice is rough, but certain. “I love you too.”
Galinda’s face collapses into relief so intense it looks like grief.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers one last time, softer now, worn down to the core truth beneath the guilt. “I’m sorry you had to be brave alone.”
Elphaba opens her eyes just enough to look at her.
“You’re here now,” Elphaba says, and the words cost her, but they matter. “That’s not alone.”
Galinda presses a kiss to Elphaba’s knuckles—gentle, reverent—and then settles, hand still interlaced with hers, eyes fixed on Elphaba’s face like she’s guarding a sunrise.
Elphaba lets the exhaustion take her, because her body is wrung out and her throat aches and she can still feel phantom tightness in her chest, but Galinda’s hand is warm and real and there, and for the first time since the corridor, the world feels like it might be safe enough to close her eyes.
Not forever.
Just for a little while.
And when she drifts, the last thing she hears is Galinda whispering, half prayer, half promise:
“No more surprises. Not like that. Never again.”