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Elphaba steels herself, her knuckles hesitating, hovering inches away from the door. She has to do this. She knows she does. But that doesn’t soothe the knot in her stomach, the thoughts in her mind that have swirled and swirled over the last fortnight until they’ve whipped themselves into a full-on tornado, decimating any reason, any thought that isn’t Fiyero.
None of them had seen him, heard a word from him in two whole weeks. And while he likes to think of himself as an enigma, somehow – beyond Elphaba’s comprehension - is to the masses, Fiyero isn’t one to do disappearing acts.
She had tried to ignore it, told herself that maybe he had the flu, or had simply gotten bored of their little friendship group and moved on. He had missed classes (which, granted, wasn’t massively out of character), mealtimes and study sessions. But what really sent alarm bells ringing was when he was a no show to a party at the Ozdust – which was, by all accounts, very out of character.
Earlier that morning, when Elphaba sat through yet another politics class staring at the door instead of listening to her professor, the thought settled in her stomach like a stone:
Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s gone.
He had been at Shiz for six months now, and his self-declared average was four. So maybe this was it, he had disappeared into the night without a goodbye, back to the Vinkus or another university. Maybe he had already settled, forgotten about them, about her. Maybe he even had a new girlfriend already.
Elphaba had gripped her pen a little too tightly, squeezed her eyes shut to will away the thought that had no business in making her heart sink - not really - but did nonetheless.
Glinda said it had to be their breakup because men, apparently, take longer to feel it. That, six weeks after the fact, he was suddenly heartbroken over the end of a relationship that, to Elphaba, at least, seemed more performance on his side than genuine feeling. She wasn’t convinced.
She wasn’t. That’s why she had bolted out of her politics class halfway through, claiming she was sick. That’s why her feet carried her to Fiyero’s dorm room, unsure if it was even still occupied.
That’s why she takes a deep breath, hands trembling, and knocks on his door, twice, three times.
It takes a while, so long that she almost gives up because maybe he is gone. But then, she hears movement on the other side of the door. Something that sounds like a long sigh, rustling of fabric, then, footsteps. They get louder, sharper, closer, until she hears the lock click, the door swinging open in front of her.
Elphaba’s eyes widen, her mouth opens and closes wordlessly. She’s surprised and it’s ridiculous because she brought herself here, she knocked on his door, she came to see him. But she had convinced herself he was gone, that she would never see him again. And now she’s standing feet away from Fiyero, in the flesh, and suddenly, a part of her wishes she wasn’t.
To put it bluntly – he’s a fucking mess.
He’s shirtless, not in the way that makes her heart race, but in the way that makes her think he got half dressed then gave up. His grey pyjama pants, marled with stains, hang low on his hips, his left trouser leg bunched up around his calf. Elphaba’s eyes reach his feet, where he’s wearing only one sock.
She takes in his face, the chapped skin on his lips, his eyes, sunken and sullen, are clouded by something she can’t name and wouldn’t want to if she could, and framed by purple and grey. There’s a light stubble on his cheeks, one she’s never seen before, a few flakes of dry skin on his nose that she wants to reach up and brush away.
His hair is wild, untamed, unkempt. Thick strands stick out at odd angles, slightly matted together, his roots dark with grease, his usual curls flat and lifeless. There’s a slight smell to him that isn’t wholly unpleasant – it probably would be to anyone else - but isn’t the sign of a well person either.
“Elphaba,” he says, sounding as surprised as she must look. And tired. He sounds so fucking tired.
He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening as if the state of him dawns on him then, the fact he isn’t alone. “What do you want?” He mutters, irritated, unkind, not the Fiyero she knows.
“I-“ she starts, a little thrown off by his reaction. “I came to see if you were ok,” she says, a little uncertain. And then, louder, clearer, “I want to know if you’re ok.” Her eyes find his, insistent, but his gaze drops away almost instantly, unable to hold hers. Elphaba’s stomach twists, something is off. This isn’t him.
Fiyero stutters a little, before saying quietly, entirely unconvincingly, “I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He closes his eyes at that, releases a long breath through his nose. His shoulders sag, like just standing there was costing him so much energy, like after barely a minute of it, his energy was already fading.
Elphaba wonders for a second if maybe Glinda was right. But, while she loves her dearly, she knows that Glinda was always more into Fiyero than he was her. And even she had gotten over their split pretty quickly. “Did something happen?”
“Yeah,” Fiyero scoffs, “I was born.”
Elphaba’s brow furrows, confusion, concern. She should leave, shouldn’t push, he clearly doesn’t want to see her. And maybe if it was someone else, she would. Maybe if he didn’t look so exhausted, so defeated, so not him, she would walk away, tell a professor or nurse to check in. But it is him and she thinks – she knows - that’s why she is brave enough instead, to ask, “can I come in?”
He looks at her, still not in her eyes, but her general direction, his eyes landing somewhere around her ankles. He chews the inside of his lip as if considering, as if he’s trying to weigh up if he can slam the door in her face and keep hiding.
Eventually, he steps aside.
The room behind him is dark, air still and suffocating. Its such a contrast to the few times she’s been in here, when it was full of life and music and party guests, when the grand room that is fit for a prince was being used to entertain his friends. Heavy drapes cover the windows, a small crack of daylight finding its way in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating dust particles that dance in the air.
She looks to Fiyero, who wastes no time in returning to his bed, sitting on it heavily with his head in his hands. His entire body sags, like even holding himself up is taking energy he just doesn’t have.
Her stomach twists, a lump forming in her throat because she thought he had left, thought he was off somewhere else having the time of his life without her, had the nerve to feel sorry for herself when this was his reality.
Elphaba’s fingers fidget with the fabric of her skirt at her side. She hovers near the window awkwardly, waiting for him to look at her, to speak, to tell her to leave, to ask her to stay.
Instead, he remains silent, slumped sideways against his headboard, his face moving from anguished to eerily expressionless. His gaze alternates between his hands in his lap and staring into space, his eyes distant like he’s not really seeing anything at all.
“I guess I should explain.” He says after a long time, so long it startles Elphaba. His voice is hoarse, brittle, and fractures the air. His eyes are fixed on her knees, still unable to will himself to look at her properly.
It’s possibly the most jarring thing about this; his inability to look her in the eye. It’s such a contrast to his usual easy confidence, his typically expressive eyes. He’s Fiyero Tigelaar - the boy who will stare anyone down, be in in challenge or seduction or both.
But not here. This isn’t him.
“You don’t have to explain anything.” She says firmly, and Fiyero exhales a small breath, like he’s relieved, like no one has ever said that to him, expected nothing from him before.
They fall into a quiet again, and then, “I’m fine, really,” he lies, his fingers digging into his thighs. “This just… happens sometimes, it’ll pass. Sometimes it just harder to-“
“Dance through?” she finishes, raising an eyebrow.
He lets out a hollow laugh, “yeah.”
Elphaba settles on his desk chair and casts her eyes around the room again. Her eyes fall to the long-abandoned essay on his desk, the considerable covering of clothes over the floor, half empty cups, used tissues and other bits of trash that litter every surface. What she doesn’t see, though, are used plates, food wrappers or cutlery; any sign that he’s eaten anything at all. She wants to ask, is about to, but then he speaks.
“I just want to go back.” He mutters, so quietly, almost absentmindedly, like he’s speaking more to himself than to Elphaba. His lips barely moving around the words.
“Back to what?” She asks, watching him closely.
“To when I didn’t feel like this.” His already wrecked voice cracks, despair flooding through the gaps.
Elphaba’s breath catches, her chest hollow and aching. She wants to say something, anything, to help, but she can’t trust herself to speak. Anyway, there’s nothing she really can say, he seems pretty well versed in this. He knows himself, his patterns. All she can do is be there for him, with him, if he will allow it.
She stands slowly, silently thanking Oz that her knees hold her weight. She takes the few steps to his bed, tentative, questioning, watching him the entire time for any hint of this being too much.
“May I?” She whispers and he nods, so she does.
Elphaba sits carefully next to him, not too close as not to spook him, not too far so he knows she’s there.
“When did you last eat?” She asks softly, without judgement. He shrugs, and her chest feels heavy with what she already knew. She exhales, ready to take action, “you shower, I’ll get you something to eat. Freshen up in here a little.” She finishes, gesturing to the room. He looks towards her, eyes landing somewhere near her stomach, like it’s the last thing he wants to do.
“It’ll help,” she says softly with a small nod of encouragement. He breathes in and out deeply, nods once, a small movement, barely there. He knows she’s right, knows because he’s done this before. Elphaba doesn’t want to think about how many times.
It’s more than agreement, its acceptance. An admission that he’s not ok, that he needs help - Elphaba’s help - and is willing to take it.
Elphaba waits until she hears the water start running before clearing up. She’s not sure why, but the thought of Fiyero forgetting something and coming out of the bathroom to her cleaning up his mess felt weird, like it might make him feel worse. So, she had waited.
The first thing she does is peel back the heavy curtains and open the windows. The low winter sun spills through the window, brisk air filling the room, her lungs, carrying away just a hint of Fiyero’s despair.
Next, she turns to his desk. She combines his half-drank water cups into as few as she can and arranges them in stacks on his dresser to be washed once he’s out of the bathroom. She finds an empty laundry bag and fills it almost instantly, the already grand room suddenly seeming much bigger with a clear floor.
Finally, she puts the stray pieces of trash around the room into the bin and her eyes fall to the task that had been playing on her mind the whole time, unsure if it was hers to do. Eventually, she goes for it, grabbing his duvet before she can talk herself out of it and shaking it down, before throwing it back over his mattress neatly. She resets his pillows, ignoring the way she inhales the air around her deeply afterward because it smells like him.
When she returns from the cafeteria with a tray of chicken soup and a few bread rolls, Fiyero is walking out of the bathroom. He towels at his hair roughly, but droplets still fall onto his shoulders, darkening his light blue sleep shirt until it’s a similar shade to his dark pyjama pants.
He looks at the tray of food, lips twisting where he bites the inside of his cheek, unsure. He walks past it, settling back on the side of his bed.
Elphaba eyes him, notices now in the well-lit room how his cheeks are slightly hollow, his usually muscular arms leaner than she’s ever seen them.
“Please eat something.” She hates how much it sounds like a plea, desperate. But maybe that’s why he nods, still avoiding her eye, and she brings the tray to him.
They sit in silence while he eats, hesitantly at first, dragging his spoon through the liquid a good few times before actually eating any. He brings the spoon to his mouth slowly, as if trying to figure out if he will be able to stomach it. It takes him a solid ten minutes to eat half the bowl and a bread roll before he places the tray on the floor next to his bed with finality.
He looks small, his fingers twisting in his lap like he’s unsure what to do with himself, at a loose end.
Elphaba’s gaze fixes on his hair, the blonde strands darkened with water, small droplets still falling from the ends, a couple running down his neck. The shortest hairs at his hairline have dried, leaving a mess of curls and frizz. Her hands move before she registers it, before she can ask herself what in Oz she’s doing and stop herself as she picks up his hairbrush.
She settles in front of him and reaches out to drag the brush through his hair gently, brushing it away from his face. When he doesn’t protest, she does it again, and again, repeating the motion in a way that grounds both of them. She continues, brushing with one hand and smoothing his hair with the other in its wake. His eyes fall somewhere around her shoulders before slipping closed, and she keeps going; brushing and smoothing, brushing and smoothing, long after his hair is detangled.
When she finally sets the brush down on the bed next to him, a stray curl at the front of his hair springs forward. She captures it instantly, brushing it back with her fingers but it comes back just as before. She rolls her eyes, smiles fondly because even his hair is stubborn.
For once though, she’s grateful for his stubbornness. He’s going to need it to get through this, has used it already, she concludes, to get this far.
“There, ready for your public.” Elphaba says softly, unable to keep the affection out of her voice.
“Don’t remind me.” She gives him a small apologetic smile, but she doesn’t miss how he sounds stronger than before, a little more himself.
A wave of uncertainty washes over her. She bites her lip as she considers her question, hands fiddling in her lap as she finally asks it; “does it always look… like this?”
Fiyero is quiet for a few moments, his breathing deepening a fraction, “yes and no,” he exhales. “Sometimes I get anxious first, I’ll have a bad thought here and there. I’m usually pretty good at identifying them at this point, telling them to shut the fuck up. But sometimes it doesn’t work, and they spiral. And then I get this tightness. This thing in my chest” his hand comes to his chest, fingers splayed and bent tight, like he’s trying to claw something out of him.
“Other times I’m fine one day and then wake up the next like.. this. But it always ends up like this, whether the anxiety has worn me down first or it’s out of the blue.” He drags a hand down his face harshly, spitting his last words, “I always end up this numb, exhausted, pathetic shell.”
“You are not pathetic.”
He scoffs.
“You’re not. Fiyero, listen to me,” she holds his shoulders lightly and his gaze lands at her jaw. “You are the furthest thing from pathetic. You are strong, and you are brave, and you shouldn’t have to do this on your own-” her words cut off when she feels the sting of tears in her eyes. She squares her jaw, keeps them in because she can’t cry, not if he isn’t. This isn’t her fight. She needs to be strong for him. “You don’t have to.” She finishes, quieter but no less certain.
Fiyero doesn’t speak, doesn’t respond. His lips twist like perhaps he’s holding back tears that Elphaba wishes he would let go, allow himself that release.
She gives him time, and when its clear he’s not going to say anything, she asks, “when did it start this time? How?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know if there were signs. If there’s something I can look out for, for next time. To help.” She’s rambling by the end of it but she doesn’t care. His eyes flick higher, to her cheek, and Elphaba watches as the tension in his shoulders eases a little.
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “How about – next time – I tell you?” He says, voice hesitant.
Elphaba exhales, relief settling in her bones. Its more than she could ask for, more than she could have hoped for, and she takes his hand in hers, squeezes gently when she says, “I would really, really like that.”
Fiyero nods once, small but certain, a promise made.
“Do you feel any better?” Elphaba asks after a while, his hand still in hers.
“I do,” he says, and it both surprises and soothes her. “Food helps, company.. helps.” He continues, his lips quirking at the edges into what Elphaba thinks is the closest thing to a smile he can manage right now. Its more than good enough for her.
She rises, sitting next to him again on his bed. She keeps a distance that’s a fraction smaller than the one she kept earlier, but it doesn’t matter, because he closes it almost instantly, his body pressing against her side, his head resting on her shoulder. His fingers find hers again, his grip more of a loose tangle of digits than actual hand holding. Elphaba’s other hand rests at the back of his head, nails tracing slow patterns in the short hairs at the base of his skull.
She’s not sure how long they’ve been like that when he shifts, but his hair has dried, and the sky outside has begun to darken.
“You should rest.” She says, voice fragile at the edges from not being used for so long.
Fiyero makes a quiet noise of agreement, moving to settle under the covers as Elphaba picks up her satchel. “Fae, will you stay?” Elphaba freezes, her stomach flips despite herself, her lips curving into a small smile.
Fae. Her nickname, the one only he uses. It’s small, minuscule really, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s something. A sign he’s starting to come back to her, to himself.
“Of course,” she says, turning back to him. Her breath catches, because finally, his eyes meet hers. The haze from before has lifted a little, a smidge of life returning to his eyes where before there was none. A ghostly shell of the man she cares so deeply for that she fears she will never be able to unsee.
He shuffles over, making space for her in his bed and for a moment, her brain short circuits - she was just going to pull up a chair. But this - this is something else. She releases a breath that shakes on its way out, drops her bag, slips off her boots and settles on the mattress next to him, again, not touching. Fiyero hums, settles deeper into his duvet.
“You can sleep too, if you want.” He says slowly, uncertainly.
“I’m one step ahead of you.” She says, pulling a book out of her satchel and opening it to her bookmark. She crosses her legs at her ankles, and angles them towards him, making contact with his legs. It’s a message, a promise, a declaration that she’s here, she’s got him, she’s not going anywhere. Small, unobtrusive, deliberate.
He watches her, affection edging his sleepy, exhausted features.
She knows this isn’t the answer, that he will need to get some kind of real help. To talk about this more, whether it’s with her or someone else she doesn’t care, as long as it happens. But right now, he’s calmer, more at ease, more at rest than he has been since she got here, probably than he has been in weeks. And maybe, just maybe, this will do for now.
“Get some rest.” She whispers, and finally, he does.