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“Oh, Elphie, I absolutely adore those gloves. Where and when did you buy them without me?” Galinda trills, delight ringing like a bell as Elphaba arrives at their unofficial cafeteria table.
The soft leather gleams against her skin, jewel-toned royal blue wrapped snug around long fingers ink-stained with spellwork. The colour is almost indecent in how well it suits her, deep and saturated against jade skin, as though someone had mixed pigment with intention rather than chance. It sharpens her posture, too. Accentuates the quiet authority she carries without effort. For a heartbeat, she looks less like a student and more like something inevitable.
A princess, perhaps, from some far western country where magic still bows its head to bloodlines and women like her are not whispered about but crowned. Places where she would be adorned with jewels and circlets instead of suspicion, where her brilliance would be celebrated rather than endured. A land where a ruling queen would see a daughter in her, where a king would recognise another scholar and finally the son who brings her home, smiling and certain, would be praised for finding the settlement everyone feared he never would in all his years of dancing and flirting and—
Fiyero catches himself staring and forcibly drags his thoughts back into his skull.
He knows exactly where the gloves came from.
He remembers the moment the idea lodged itself behind his ribs, sharp and quiet. Her old pair, black and threadbare, fingers worn to near translucence from hours bent over spell circles and candle smoke. How she’d tugged them on anyway, stubborn as gravity, even as the corridors grew colder and her hands trembled just slightly when she thought no one was looking. He’d noticed the shiver she hid. Not weakness. Refusal. Elphaba never complained. She simply endured, like pain was a language she had learned too early and never forgotten.
And she would never, under any circumstances, accept the lace-pink monstrosities Galinda kept trying to foist upon her with aggressively cheerful generosity. Nor would she go to Nessa, not for something as trivial as gloves, not when her sister already carried enough weight with whatever complicated tenderness and worry was unfolding between her and Boq.
So Fiyero had done what he did best when he cared.
He’d solved the problem quietly.
He’d gone off-campus, past the shops that catered to students, to a royal seamstress who understood discretion the way other people understood prayer. One who worked for customers of his stature and did not ask questions if paid well enough. He’d requested durability and warmth, sensitivity enough for spellcasting, seams that wouldn’t catch or fray under magic’s bite.
‘Jewel tones,’ he’d said, without quite knowing why, only that pastels would insult her and black would feel like surrender. When the woman laid out swatches, his hand had paused over blues and greens that reminded him of places he didn’t talk about with anyone but Elphaba and Feldspur on the rare nights homesickness crept in. Home. Sunlight through leaves. Ocean-shadowed skies. Silver and gold threads woven so subtly they caught light like secrets.
It was not his fault that the colours of his homeland loved her skin so fiercely. Or that she deserved the most expensive things money could buy without having to ask.
He’d ordered several pairs. Different hues. He’d meant to stagger them, rotate deliveries, keep it from feeling deliberate. But caution won. One pair only. Something neutral enough not to alarm her.
Royal blue.
As Galinda continues her inquisition, leaning in close and batting her lashes, Fiyero sets his hands on the table. Casual. Careless. The performance of ease he’s perfected. Leather creaks softly as he spreads his fingers, emerald green gloves supple and unmistakably new, catching the cafeteria’s light.
He makes sure Elphaba sees.
Just a glance. Just long enough.
His gloves are a shade deeper than her skin, rich and alive. A green that echoes her without mimicking her. Something chosen. Something intentional.
Something that says ‘with.’
He watches the exact moment her eyes snag on them.
The flicker is brief but unmistakable. Her gaze sharpens, then softens, then goes bright with something dangerously close to hope before she reins it in. Colour blooms higher on her cheekbones, emerald deepening into warmth, into embarrassment she hates herself for. Her full green lips press thin, tempting in the way restraint always is. Then she does what she always does when something threatens to mean too much.
She dismisses it.
He can almost hear the internal argument, crisp and merciless. Coincidence is safer than care. Logic over longing. She turns back to Galinda, deflecting with a clipped answer about a shop she can’t quite name, about practicality, about nothing at all.
But her eyes betray her, flicking back to him again and again throughout lunch.
Blue gloves on green skin.
Green gloves on sun-warmed tan.
A flash of green lip caught briefly between her teeth.
Fascination pooling dark and deep in forest-coloured eyes.
And in his own, sky-blue and far too honest, an affection he is doing a very poor job of hiding.
Around them, the table hums. Boq laughs too loudly at something Galinda says. Nessa smiles, thoughtful, watching Elphaba with a fondness that makes Fiyero’s chest ache. Trays clatter. Cups scrape. Speculation blooms like a harmless infection. Jokes about secret benefactors, admirers with expensive taste, professors with peculiar hobbies. Laughter rises and falls like a tide.
Elphaba smiles once. Small. Disbelieving. Almost sad.
The urge to tell her claws at Fiyero’s throat.
He should stop this. He should ease her mind. He should tell her that the gloves came from him, that no one is watching her through gifts, that she isn’t being measured or tested or hunted. That this is not a trap.
But he knows her.
He knows that if she knows, she’ll return them. That she’ll insist she can manage without. That she’ll turn care into debt, kindness into obligation. He knows she will choose cold fingers over owing him anything at all.
And she deserves, just once, something given freely. Something warm. Something that does not demand explanation or repayment.
So he keeps quiet.
If he needles her a bit harder in history class later, asks questions he already knows she can answer, and nudges her attention elsewhere just to muddy the trail, that’s between him and the seamstress. And maybe fate.
For now, he lets her wear his care without knowing it’s his.
And lets himself wear her.
Fiyero yearns the way some people breathe. Quietly. Constantly. Without permission.
After the gloves, it becomes harder to stop.
He tells himself he will. That it was a single indulgence, a practical kindness masquerading as a coincidence. But yearning is a greedy thing. It sharpens. It remembers. It watches Elphaba carefully, cataloguing the way her mouth curves when she’s absorbed in a problem, the way her shoulders loosen when she laughs despite herself, the way she pretends not to notice beauty as though denying it gives her power over it.
And he keeps thinking: she has never been given anything simply because she deserves it.
So the gifts change.
They stop pretending to be useful.
The next arrives folded into brown paper, no note, no explanation. A length of silk, dyed a deep iridescent green that shifts toward gold when the light hits it just right. Too fine for Shiz. Too extravagant for everyday wear. The kind of fabric meant for evenings and candlelight, and being looked at without apology.
Elphaba stares at it for a long time before touching it.
Galinda gasps like she’s been stabbed by delight. “That is criminal,” she declares. “Someone is obsessedulated with you.”
Elphaba stiffens immediately. Suspicion hardens her spine. She checks the seams for sabotage and mutters a detection spell under her breath. When nothing flares, when the silk remains stubbornly, harmlessly beautiful, she frowns as though offended by its innocence.
Fiyero watches from across the room, heart in his throat, convinced she will march it straight to lost and found or burn it out of spite.
She does neither.
She folds it carefully. Too carefully. And places it in her trunk as though it might bruise if mishandled.
That night, he lies awake replaying the moment like a prayer.
After that, the floodgates creak open.
A bracelet of hammered gold appears one morning, warm against her wrist as though it remembers a sun she’s never seen. Not flashy. Heavy. Real. The kind of thing meant to be worn for decades, not seasons.
A bottle of ink imported from the south, darker than midnight, enchanted never to blot or fade. Perfect for spell diagrams. Perfect for her hand.
A hairpin wrought in twisting metal, leaves curling around a single small emerald. Entirely unnecessary. Entirely indulgent. Entirely meant to be noticed.
Each time, Elphaba grows more unsettled.
Each time, Fiyero grows more undone.
He convinces himself she doesn’t know.
Because she doesn’t look at him when the gifts arrive. Not really. She scans the room for shadows, for patterns, for danger. She theorizes aloud about professors and benefactors and enemies with too much time. She never once lands on him.
Never considers that someone might simply want her happy.
The irony would be funny if it weren’t devastating.
He starts thinking of gifts while he’s supposed to be listening in class. Wonders if she’d prefer opals or sapphires. If she’d hate a necklace or secretly like the weight of it. He imagines fastening it at the nape of her neck and has to grip his desk until the image passes.
He starts choosing things that say what he cannot.
A first-edition book of obscure magical theory she once mentioned offhandedly at three in the morning. A cloak lined with fur soft as breath, dyed the green of deep forests after rain. A music box from the coast, its tune unfamiliar and haunting, something that sounds like leaving and longing and coming back changed.
Too expensive. Too personal. Too intimate.
He knows it. He feels it every time his pulse jumps as she unwraps something new.
And still, he believes she doesn’t know.
Because when she looks at him, it’s with confusion, not accusation. With warmth, not wariness. Because she still argues with him in class, still rolls her eyes when he’s insufferable, still sits close enough that their knees brush and pretends not to notice.
Because if she knew, she would stop it.
She would stop him.
And Fiyero isn’t ready for that yet.
So he yearns.
He pours his wanting into silk and gold and rare ink, into things that will touch her when he cannot. He tells himself that as long as she believes the gifts come from nowhere, they cost her nothing.
He tells himself this is restraint.
And every night, as he lies awake thinking of the way her fingers curve around unfamiliar beauty, he wonders how long before yearning gives way to truth.
And whether she will forgive him when it does.
The scarf disappears for a few days.
Fiyero notices immediately.
He tells himself it means nothing. That she’s put it away, decided it’s too much, too dangerous, too indulgent. He prepares himself for the familiar hollow of restraint, for the quiet relief that comes with knowing he didn’t push her too far.
Then she walks into a lecture.
Her curly braids are pulled high, gathered at the crown of her head in a way he’s never seen before, the weight of them cascading down her back like a dark river. The silk scarf winds through them, emerald and gold flashing when she moves, the fabric catching light with every turn of her head. It tames nothing. It adorns. It claims space.
For a moment, the room seems to tilt.
Elphaba carries herself differently, like this. Chin lifted. Neck bared. The line of her throat suddenly visible, unguarded and devastating. The scarf looks less like an accessory and more like a declaration, braids bound not for convenience but for beauty. For being seen.
Fiyero’s breath stutters.
He had imagined her wearing it. Casually draped. Folded away. Hidden. He had not imagined this. Had not imagined her choosing something so deliberate, so striking, so public.
Galinda gasps softly behind her. “Oh,” she says, reverent. “That’s a new look .”
Elphaba hums, noncommittal, taking her seat. “It keeps my hair out of the way.”
It does no such thing. It frames her face. Draws the eye. Makes every glance linger.
Fiyero watches her fingers absently adjust the knot, the silk sliding against her skin, and feels something dangerous unfurl in his chest. She didn’t have to wear it. She could have locked it away, dismissed it as extravagance.
Instead, she wove it into herself.
Into her magic. Into her presence.
He tells himself again that she doesn’t know.
Because when her gaze flicks to him, just once, it’s uncertain. Curious. Almost shy. As if she’s waiting to see whether this choice was a mistake. Whether it will be mocked or questioned or taken from her.
His smile comes easily. Soft. Approving. Wordless.
Her shoulders ease a fraction.
The lecture begins, and she leans forward, intent as ever, but the scarf moves when she does, silk whispering against braids, catching sunlight, catching him. Every time she turns a page, every time she raises her hand to argue a point, that flash of green and gold reminds him that something he chose now lives on her body.
She wears his yearning like a crown.
And still, he believes she doesn’t know.
That she thinks the scarf is simply beautiful. That it came from nowhere. That it means nothing more than adornment.
But as the hour wears on, he watches her touch it unconsciously when a question unsettles her, fingers brushing the knot as though for reassurance, and something inside him aches with fierce, unnameable pride.
If she ever asks, he will tell her.
If she ever looks at him and knows, he will stop.
Until then, he lets her braid herself in silk and sunlight and his wanting.
And he wonders how long before even Elphaba, brilliant and guarded and unbearably perceptive, begins to suspect that beauty like this does not arrive by accident.
Until…
“I know the gifts are from you, Yero.”
The words land softly. No accusation. No edge. Just truth, set carefully between them like a fragile thing.
Fiyero jumps anyway.
They’re in his private quarters, studying.
His chair scrapes back an inch, muscle memory flaring before pride can catch up. He’d been leaning over a map of ancient trade routes, pretending to be absorbed, pretending he hadn’t been watching the way candlelight braided itself through her hair. Sneaky. He’d been sure of it. Years of practised charm, of slipping past notice, of never being pinned to a single intention.
All of it, apparently, useless.
Elphaba doesn’t look at him right away. Her eyes are on her notes, fingers tracing the margin of a page she’s long since memorised. The scarf is in her hair again, tonight wound lower, more intimate, its silk brushing the nape of her neck when she shifts. She looks…composed. Which somehow makes it worse.
“I’m not mad,” she says quietly. Then, after a beat, honest as only she ever is, “Well. Not anymore.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“You—you knew?” The question comes out dumb, stripped of princely polish, all disbelief and naked astonishment.
She finally looks up at him then. Forest-green eyes, steady and bright and far too kind for the trouble he’s in.
“I suspected,” she says. “Then I knew.”
His stomach drops through the floor.
“When?”
Elphaba considers him for a moment, head tilting. “The ink,” she says. “No one else noticed I was rationing it. Not Galinda. Not Morrible. You did.” A pause. “And the scarf. It smelled like sea salt and cedar oil. You came back from the coast two days before it arrived.”
He swallows.
“And,” she adds, almost reluctantly, “you always look at me like you’re… waiting. Not watching. Waiting.”
That does it.
Whatever careful speech he’d rehearsed in the privacy of his own mind evaporates. He scrubs a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged thing before forcing himself to stop. To face her.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I swear. I thought—I thought if you knew, you’d hate it. Hate me. You hate owing people things.”
“I do,” she says mildly.
His mouth quirks despite himself. Of course, she’d agree.
“I wasn’t trying to buy you,” he continues, more urgently now. “Or trap you. I just—you never let anyone give you anything. And you’re always cold. And tired. And everyone expects so much of you and—” He cuts himself off, breath sharp. “I wanted something in your life to be easy.”
Silence stretches between them, thick and charged.
Elphaba studies him like she does a complex theorem, not to dismantle but to understand. When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“I was angry,” she admits. “At first. I thought you were…playing at something. That this was a joke I wasn’t in on.” Her fingers curl briefly, then relax. “And then I realised you never once gave me anything that asked for my attention in return.”
He blinks.
Fiyero’s private quarters are quiet in a way the rest of Shiz never is.
Not empty. Just insulated. Thick rugs mute footsteps. Tall windows drink in the early evening light and give it back softened, honeyed. Everything is too nice to be accidental. Too large. A prince’s apology for taking up space without ever meaning to.
Elphaba goes to stand near one of the windows, arms folded loosely, watching him pivot to the adjoining kitchen with a mask of ease to hide his fear at being caught out. Sleeves get rolled. Hair gets tied back. A knife is now flashing as he starts to chop vegetables like he’s settling a personal grudge.
“You know,” she says lightly, choosing to completely change the subject, “if anyone saw this, it would ruin at least three persistent myths about you.”
He blinks at the change, then snorts, rolling with the punches. “Let me guess. I don’t cook. I don’t take direction. And I certainly don’t do it dressed.”
“Correct,” she says. “Also, I think half the student body believes you’re sustained entirely on charm and scandal.”
He glances back at her, mouth quirking. “I’m deeply offended.”
She hums, unconvinced, and perches on the edge of the counter despite his halfhearted protest. Her foot swings idly. The necklace is gone today, replaced by simplicity, but the bracelet gleams when she moves. His bracelet. He tries not to shake at the fact that she knows the depth of his devotion. His affection.
It’s been a long day of people not listening.
Again.
Someone cornered him outside Advanced Rhetoric. Smiled too brightly. Touched his arm like permission was a courtesy, not a requirement. He’d said no. Politely. Then less politely. Then not at all. It hadn’t mattered. It never does.
He exhales slowly, shoulders tight, and Elphaba notices because of course she does.
“They don’t take your no seriously,” she notes, still not returning to the gift giving elephant in the room.
He shrugs, which is easier than admitting anything. “It’s…expected. I think they hear it as flirtation. Or a challenge.”
“Or they think your boundaries are decorative,” she says flatly.
That makes him laugh. Short. Bitter. Accurate.
She watches him for a moment, expression unreadable, then tilts her head. “I have a solution.”
He pauses mid-chop. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“You shouldn’t be,” she says. “It’s extremely practical.”
That’s how he knows it’s dangerous.
She hops down from the counter and steps closer, voice lowering, conspiratorial. “A fake relationship.”
He turns to face her fully now. “Surely you jest.”
“Because I'm known for my jests.”
“Elphaba.”
“Fiyero.”
Something electric hums between them. He searches her face for irony. Finds none. Only resolve. And something else, carefully banked.
She continues, gentler now. “You’re tired of people refusing to listen. I’m tired of people disrespecting my friend and treating him like a piece of meat.” A beat. “We solve both problems at once.”
“You don’t even like attention,” he says weakly.
“I like when there’s respect.”
He laughs despite himself. “That’s a terrifying endorsement.”
She folds her arms, green eyes sharp but kind. “And now,” she adds thoughtfully, “I know why you were sending all the gifts.”
His heart stutters, he knew he wasn’t safe. “You do?”
She nods, certain. Too certain.
“You were trying to send them a message,” she says. “That you’re courting someone. That you’re serious. That you belong to someone who won’t tolerate nonsense.” Her mouth curves. “It just didn’t work because they refused to take you seriously.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
The truth hovers there, delicate as spun glass. That the gifts were never for an audience. That the message was never meant for anyone but her.
But the way she’s looking at him now…pleased. Relieved. As if she’s finally slotted a loose piece into place and the picture makes sense at last.
He lets it stand.
“That was…part of it,” he says carefully.
Her smile widens, triumphant. “See? Strategy.”
He turns back to the stove before she can see the way his ears warm. “You’re very generous, offering this.”
She shrugs. “I benefit too.”
“How?” he asks, genuinely curious.
She considers him. “People stop speculating about my gifts,” she says. “And I get to eat something that didn’t spend four hours under a heat lamp.”
He laughs again, this time real. “You scare people away AND compliment my cooking?”
“You’re a prince,” she says. “I assume you must receive compliments at all times or else you’ll wither away.”
He slides a plate toward her a few minutes later. Simple. Warm. Good. She takes a bite and closes her eyes in surprise.
“Oh,” she says. “That’s unfair.”
“High praise,” he says.
They eat leaning against the counter, shoulders nearly brushing, the pretence already settling between them like a well-worn coat. Not uncomfortable. Never that.
“So,” he says casually, “how convincing are we pretending to be?”
She glances at him sideways. “Convincing enough that next time someone ignores your no, I can look at them like I’m considering which curse to use.”
His grin is immediate. “I’m so close to swooning, Miss Thropp.”
She smiles back. Real. Soft. Dangerous.
Neither of them says the obvious thing.
That pretending is easier than stopping.
That some messages were already received.
That this is the first lie they both want to keep telling.
Elphaba had expected the fake dating to be awkward. Stilted. Obvious. A performance with visible seams.
It isn’t.
It slides into place like breath, like habit, like something her body learned long before her mind caught up.
Because she and Fiyero are such good friends, of course.
He walks her to class without being asked, carrying her books like it’s an honour rather than a courtesy. He adjusts his stride to hers without comment. When she stops to argue with a professor in the hall, he waits, patient and amused, leaning against the wall like he’s got nowhere better to be. When she complains about the cafeteria food, he simply stops letting her eat it.
“You get grouchy when you’re hungry, Fae,” he tells her one morning, handing over a wrapped parcel still warm to the touch. “Can’t let my girl be starving before she reminds Shiz why she’s the best student to ever walk its halls.”
He winks when she scowls at him for the 'my girl' part, and she absolutely does not feel the way her stomach flips at the casual pride in his voice.
He starts bringing the gifts directly to her now, no pretence, no mystery. Just Fiyero, grinning like this is the most natural evolution in the world.
Some are impractical. Entirely unnecessary. A gaudy bookmark in clashing colours that she loudly declares an offence to the written word, even as she uses it religiously. He beams every time she pretends not to like it.
Some are deliberate acts of devotion disguised as jokes. When she mutters one afternoon about the visual assault of clashing patterns in lecture, how the colours give her a headache when she’s trying to focus, he listens. Actually listens.
The next week, he dresses exclusively in black.
Day one, she raises an eyebrow.
Day two, she notices the subtle variations. Wool. Linen. Leather. The way the cuts shift, the way dark fabric somehow makes him look more princely instead of less.
By day three, she nearly hexes him when he shows up in a fitted black shirt and a lazy smile.
“Don’t pretend this isn’t on purpose,” she accuses.
“It is,” he says cheerfully. “You said it hurt to look at people. Thought I’d make myself easier on the eyes.”
She calls him insufferable. He takes it like a compliment.
He remembers everything.
And she hates that she can’t fault him for it.
Because she remembers him, too. His complaints were hidden under humour. The way he jokes about attention, like it doesn’t wear him down. The way he pretends persistence doesn’t bother him when it very clearly does. So if she dismantles certain girls’ arguments with extra efficiency, that’s academic rigour; it matters not that they still insisted on shortening their hemlines around him, knowing he was spoken for. If she humiliates a few boys in sparring matches and leaves them staring at the ground with wounded pride because they refused to take his no seriously, that’s competitive spirit.
No one questions it.
They just eventually stop bothering him.
He holds her hand in public, easy and warm, like it always belonged there. Galinda squeals every single time, hands clasped to her chest like she’s witnessing true love made manifest.
He kisses Elphaba’s cheek when they part ways. Sometimes her forehead. A brush of lips, brief and reverent, like punctuation rather than declaration. Even Nessa, ever watchful, looks away when she sees it, sighing quietly in envy that Boq never thinks to do the same.
And Elphaba knows it’s fake.
She knows, intellectually, that the gloves and the scarf and the necklace warm against her collarbone and the weighty bracelet at her wrist were meant as armour. As a deterrent. As a message.
But sometimes, like now, the knowing slips.
They’re stretched out in the poppy field, grass warm beneath her back. Elphaba sits with her legs folded, book balanced in one hand. Fiyero’s head rests in her lap, heavy and comfortable, like he belongs there. Her free jade hand combs through his soft, sandy hair, fingers catching gently on waves as she reads aloud.
His eyes are closed. His breathing is slow. Peaceful in a way she’s never seen him in public.
She isn’t being stared at. No whispers. No flinches. No measuring looks. She’s not too smart, too sharp, too defensive, too green. She’s just…here. Full from food he packed because he knows exactly what she likes. Warm from sunlight. Steady.
Earlier, she’d practised a new spell in front of him, tentative and precise. He’d watched the magic bloom across his hands with unguarded awe, like he was witnessing a miracle instead of a girl everyone else treats like a threat.
“I knew you were extraordinary,” he’d said softly. “But this…”
She’d pretended not to hear his praise
Now, his fingers curl loosely into the fabric of her deep blue skirt, unconscious, trusting. She reads another passage, voice calm and low, and for a moment she forgets entirely that this is meant to be pretend.
Because it’s built on something real.
Their friendship has always been different. Different from her and Galinda’s too different yet equally devoted affection. Different from Fiyero and Boq’s earnest yet jealous friendship. Different from her and Nessa’s frigid sisterhood. Different even from Feldspur’s fierce loyalty.
This is quieter. Deeper. More dangerous.
And it’s easy, in moments like this, for a sarcastic sorceress to forget how stories usually go.
Easy to forget that green girls don’t get the charming prince at the end.
That princes are allowed to pretend.
That wanting something does not mean the world will let you keep it.
Her fingers still in his hair, Elphaba keeps reading anyway.
Just in case the story, this time, dares to change.
Fiyero has been on cloud nine for months now, drifting somewhere between disbelief and devotion, like the universe finally blinked first and handed him something fragile and miraculous and told him not to fumble it.
He and Fae have been together for six months. Or two and a half. Or all of it, depending on how honest one wants to be with the math.
If one removes the first month and a half of secret gifts and then subtracts the two months of fake dating, then yes, technically, they have only been official for a little while. But Fiyero refuses to view it that way. The gifts were courtship. The fake dating was a strategy. The constant proximity, the way she softened only with him, the way she had been uniquely irritated by him long before she liked him…that was seduction in its purest form.
He has not gone on a single date with anyone else since the day she wore the scarf.
He hasn’t wanted to.
They have rhythms now. Sacred ones. Time set aside just for them. Evenings where she reads aloud and idly plays with his hair while he pretends to understand half the political theory she’s explaining. Mornings spent riding Feldspur, just the three of them, wind in their faces and laughter loose and unguarded. Afternoons where she shows up unannounced at his private quarters, presses a hand flat to his chest like she’s checking he’s still real, and declares it a study session.
Fiyero does homework now.
He passes his classes!
The faculty is baffled.
She also gets into trouble now. She sometimes follows him into it. They go into town together sometimes, hands clasped, fingers tangling when no one’s watching. People have stopped asking him out entirely, like the world itself has conceded the point.
There is, objectively, no reason to continue pretending.
Which is why it hits him like a brick in the dark, sometime past midnight, while he’s halfway through an essay he actually intends to submit.
They’re not faking anything.
They’re just…dating.
And he hasn’t said it out loud.
Elphaba hasn’t either.
She hasn’t changed, not really. She’s still sharp-tongued and incandescently brilliant, still argumentative, still allergic to nonsense. They debate constantly. Other people find it unbearable.
Fiyero finds it intoxicating. Foreplay disguised as discourse.
They haven’t kissed. Not properly. Not mouths. Haven’t fallen into bed naked. Not like he’s known with others. But this is Elphaba. He would happily spend a lifetime restrained to hands and foreheads and the backs of knuckles if that’s what makes her feel safe.
So he takes what she gives.
Hands held. Cheek kissed. Forehead pressed reverently to hers. Lips brushed over her fingers like she was something holy. Arms wrapped around her from behind until she protests and elbows him lightly. Spins her until she laughs despite herself, and then cuffs him on the back of the head for it.
It’s romance. Even if no one else recognises the shape of it.
He’s smiling down at his homework when the knock comes.
It’s late. Very late. Only three people ever knock on his door at this hour, and two of them would announce themselves first.
He opens it.
And there she is.
Elphaba, framed by the hall light, curls escaping her braids, eyes bright and a little frazzled.
“Fae,” he breathes, the word leaving him like a prayer.
He steps aside instantly, ushering her in like the space was always meant to receive her.
“To what do I owe this very late-night visit?” he asks, glancing at the clock despite already knowing.
She exhales, rolling her shoulders like she’s shedding tension. “Shenshen fried the electricity in the western dorm. Entirely. Miss Coddle is…displeased. They’re sending someone from town tomorrow, but until then, we’re apparently expected to find alternative lodging. Galinda is with Pfanee, and Nessa is upset for one reason or another.”
She hesitates, fingers curling into her sleeve.
“I was wondering if I could board with you. Just until morning.”
The way she asks it hurts him. Like she’s bracing for rejection. Like she doesn’t already belong here.
“I’ve told you time and time again,” he says immediately, too quickly, “these are pretty much our quarters. You’re free to be here whenever you want. Just don’t look in the closet. There are things in there you would not approve of.”
She snorts, tension easing. “I severely doubt anything in your closet could shock me.”
He closes the door behind her, the sound solid, final, and suddenly the room feels homier. Warmer.
She takes in the space like she always does, curious and comfortable, toeing off her shoes. He realises, with a delayed jolt, that he has never once had her stay the night.
Not like this.
He clears his throat. “You can take the bed.”
She turns slowly. “Absolutely not.”
“I insist.”
“So do I.”
They stare at each other, stubborn mirrored in green and blue.
“There’s a chaise,” she points out.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I have a cloak.”
“It’s decorative,” he counters. “And you know it.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, “you keep showing up.”
There is a pause. A long one. Something electric hums between them, unspoken and suddenly enormous.
She exhales through her nose. “Fine. We’ll share. But if you so much as twitch—”
“I will behave,” he promises solemnly, hand to heart.
She studies his face, searching for mockery, finds only sincerity, and finally nods.
They prepare in silence. He turns his back while she changes. She braids her braids tighter. He changes his shirt. The bed looms in the centre of the room, massive and undeniably singular.
Only one.
They lie down carefully, side by side, a polite gulf between them that feels absurdly wide and impossibly narrow all at once.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
He stares at the ceiling, acutely aware of her warmth. Her breathing. The faint scent of her soap.
“Yero,” she murmurs.
“Yes?”
“…thank you.”
For the room. For safety. For the months of patience he never demanded acknowledgement for.
He turns his head just enough to see her face, softened by low light and sleep-warm shadows.
“Always,” he says.
She hesitates. Then, tentative as a question, she isn’t sure she’s allowed to ask, she shifts closer. Her shoulder brushes his arm. Her fingers catch in the fabric of his sleeve.
He stills completely, like a man who knows better than to move when trust is being offered.
After a moment, she tucks herself against his side, careful and deliberate, resting her head against his chest as if it has always been permitted. As if it is not new at all.
Fiyero’s heart nearly breaks open.
He wraps an arm around her slowly, unmistakably asking.
She doesn’t pull away.
Outside, the night settles into itself. Inside, two people who have been circling the truth for months finally lie within it.
And neither of them pretends, not really, that this is fake anymore.
“…you’re a good fake boyfriend,” she murmurs into the dark, her head turned on the pillow so she can see him.
Blue eyes blink rapidly, lashes fluttering as the words land.
“…fake?” He shifts closer, lying on the other pillow, her beautiful face filling more of his vision than feels safe.
“My dearest, silliest Fae,” he whispers, voice low and warm, “it hasn’t been fake for me for a very long time.”
He sees the instinct rise in her, the urge to retreat, to deny, to armour herself in wit and distance.
He does not give her the space to do it.
“It stopped being fake the day I walked into the most expensive, most private seamstress house in the city,” he continues softly, reverently, “and asked her to make the softest leather gloves she had. Emerald green in my size. Royal blue in yours.”
Her breath stutters.
“That was six months ago, Elphaba.”
His hands find hers where they lie between them, tanned fingers curling gently around jade ones, grounding, claiming nothing, asking everything. Their eyes stay locked.
Blue against green.
A confession.
A benediction.
A truth finally spoken aloud.
“…okay,” she whispers.
The word is barely there. A breath more than a sound. It feels fragile in the low light, like something newly born that might vanish if spoken to too loudly.
Fiyero doesn’t move.
He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t close the distance. He stays exactly where he is, heart thundering, every instinct screaming to pull her closer, and every hard-earned instinct reminding him that Elphaba needs to choose this. Needs to step forward on her own.
And she does.
She untangles one of their joined hands, slow, deliberate, as though she’s afraid the moment will shatter if she moves too quickly. Her fingers rise to his jaw, tentative at first, then surer, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone like she’s memorising him by touch. Her hand is warm. Steady.
She leans in.
The kiss is soft. Almost shy. More question than declaration.
Fiyero answers it immediately.
Not with urgency. Not with hunger. With presence.
He meets her mouth gently, like this is something sacred, like he’s been waiting his entire life to learn the shape of her lips and intends to do it properly. Her breath catches when he kisses her back, and the sound goes straight through him, sharp and electric.
One of his hands lifts before he quite realises it’s moving, fingers brushing the chain at her throat. The necklace. The one he’d chosen months ago with shaking hands and no expectation of ever seeing it worn like this. His thumb traces the warm gold absently before his fingers slide upward, threading carefully into her little escaped curls at the nape of her neck.
They’re softer than he imagined.
Everything about her feels warmer than he imagined.
She shifts closer, encouraged now, her hand sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to pull him nearer. The kiss deepens, still slow but fuller, more confident, their mouths learning each other in real time. He adjusts instinctively, angling himself over her without pinning her, careful to keep his weight supported, one arm braced beside her head.
Their bodies fit together with a quiet inevitability that makes his chest ache.
He can feel her everywhere. The press of her beneath him. The way her knee nudges between his legs. The soft hitch of her breath every time he kisses her as he means it. They move together without rushing, a gentle friction that builds heat without urgency, desire blooming steady and deep instead of sharp and overwhelming.
For a moment, it threatens to crest too fast.
He feels it. The pull. The hunger. Six months of restraint humming just under his skin.
So he slows them down.
His mouth leaves hers reluctantly, tracing softer kisses along her cheek, her jaw, her temple. He presses his forehead to hers, breathing her in, grounding himself in the feel of her warmth and the steady rhythm of her breath.
Her hands remain on him. Unwilling to let go. Fingers curled into his shirt like she’s afraid he’ll disappear.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing her cheek. “We have time.”
Her eyes flutter open, green and bright and unguarded in the dim. She nods once, trusting him completely, and that trust settles over him heavier than any crown.
He pulls her gently into his chest instead, one arm wrapped securely around her back, the other cradling her head. She melts into him with a quiet sigh, cheek pressed over his heart like she belongs there.
And maybe she does.
They lie tangled together, legs brushing, breaths slowly syncing. The room feels different now. Softer. Like the truth has finally been spoken aloud and the walls have adjusted to accommodate it.
Outside, the night deepens.
Inside, the world narrows to warmth and quiet and the steady realisation that nothing here is pretend anymore.
They fall asleep like that. Curled together. Safe. Certain.
No performances. No lies.
Just Elphaba and Fiyero, finally resting in something real.