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Fiyero was never the smartest, or the funniest child. He had his brother fill those impossible slots in the family. And most of the time, he didn’t know where he fit exactly— truly, he believed that he’d never know. He’d never know. Which is why he chose, intentionally, to be the dumbest. It was easy, it could be endearing with the correct people and when you’re the least favorite in a line of royals then you get to be the dumb one. The pretty one. The conceited one. He wore these names with pride, the names he’d come to let hinder most of his actions.
When people come to expect a certain…flippancy from you, it makes little sense to change. That was, of course, until Elphaba. Elphaba, who hadn’t found his idiotic pretense endearing or convincing and instead annoying and well, shallow.
Galinda was beautiful, kind and cruel when she wanted to be. She used ignorance as a weapon. He admired her for it, he’d been doing the same thing his entire life. He remembers the moment that he’d really thought he had fallen for Galinda: she’d been telling him a story of her childhood, a wand and how she’d casted a spell that made a rainbow appear. For the smallest of seconds. Her left eyelid twitched and her eyebrows drooped before she remembered she had to perform for someone.
He’d known then, she was like him. And he’s sure he did like her for that reason, it just wasn’t enough. Not now. Not ever. They would’ve only validated the worst in each other. She liked Fiyero for all the reasons everyone else did, his ability to project and hide. He’s sure they would have been best friends even without the relationship aspect. Fiyero had liked falling asleep next to her, her head to his bare chest while her light breaths soothed like white nose.
The girl, Elphaba, saw another side to him. Corny, cheesy, maybe but it was quite true. That cub, that day, the way the poppies danced through the air and the fear that overtook him at the prospects of losing his friends (maybe, for good) to some poppy flowers’ pollen. But she looked over at him. And he wasn’t scared anymore. At first, he wanted to be upset that the girl hadn't taken the liberty of also putting him to sleep but he was happy she didn’t. He’d finally done something that day. Something utterly radical and good. For once.
He had detached that day, from Galinda, romantically at least if you could ever call it that. They hadn’t really known each other. It’d just made sense. Two depressed people. Two heartless chests and a hand to hold. It was beautiful. He liked those days in the flower fields, dancing, racing Nessarose up a hill and losing. Starfish position in a field, in between the best people he’d possibly ever know.
And for a while, he thought that’s how he’d spend the rest of his life: starfish position in a poppy field, help up on a makeshift crucifix. But suddenly, he was straw. Pure straw. How confusifying.
Naturally, when a little girl claiming to go to the wizard had crossed his path he’d said anything he could to get down. All roads lead to the wizard, but in his mind that just meant Elphaba.
It was interesting the command he could have on people, simply singing about how depressed he was in college came off rebel-like but he always thought she knew.
He hated to admit it, in the tiny corners of his haystack, he’d been scared that she might have forgotten him. Time feels different when you’re up on that post, nothing to look at but yellow road and sky. A torturous existence. Minutes felt unending and yet, if he thought about the day with the poppies, a sense of self worth would bloom in his chest like he’d never had before. Real, honest respect for what he’d done. Pride.
Fiyero had always feared being invisible, forgettable. Now it has come full circle, literally. Birds nested within him, wind whistled through his hay, strangers often took one glance and continued about. It was ironic in a painful sort of fashion: he’d spent a lifetime being seen for all the wrong reasons, and now he wasn’t seen at all.
Elphaba noticed too much, cared too extravagantly. He hoped she would remember the shape of him.
Sometimes, late into the night when the crowd finally quieted, and the silver moon draped over the field; he’d imagine what he’d say to her. Would he laugh? Sob? Fall apart, for the final time?
Would he say her name like a prayer or a curse? What would it sound like to her?
He only knew that he’d leap off that damn pole and stumble toward her without hesitation. Being a prince never mattered, neither did being a scarecrow. Being seen, truly, inconveniently, irrevocably, mattered more to him than whatever a flesh existence could have provided without it.
And if she still wanted him, or just wanted him alive, that’d be enough.
Burdened by weight he wasn’t meant to carry, he spoke to little Dorthy, who seemed to truly believe in the wizard's goodness and she could believe what she wanted, he just needed to get off that damn stick. He would have told her anything.
Every time he shifted, he felt pieces of himself slide inside, little murmurs of loosened stuffing. He wondered if this was how it had always been for him: holding himself together just enough not to spill out. Maybe being straw hadn’t changed him so much.
He thought of Galinda sometimes. What she would say if she saw him like this. She’d scream, probably. Or worse, she’d pity him. And he couldn’t bear pity. Not from someone who loved the version of him that never actually lived. He hoped—selfishly, guiltily, that she had been angry when he chose Elphaba. Anger at least meant she’d felt something real. Something she’d only previously felt with Elphaba. He wasn’t dumb, she’d never loved him. She loved what he represented. And he played that part for a while. He no longer could. No longer would.
Elphaba felt everything too intensely. It scared him in the beginning, then it drew him in, and finally, swallowed him whole. Now, out here with nothing but wind, he found himself replaying every clipped, incredulous little sigh she’d given him. Every moment she’d challenged him, pushed him, reached right into the hollow parts of him and expected him to fill them. He wanted to tell her that he was trying. Even now. Even like this.
Sometimes travelers passed, before Dorothy, and he’d try out bits of courage. Ask them if they’d seen a green girl in black boots, a cape, the likes. Most shrugged. Some laughed. Others looked at him, horrified.
Nights were hardest. When the wheat fields hissed like whispering ghosts and every memory felt louder. He would think of her hands; always cold, always busy, always fidgeting. The way she touched things like she expected them to break, had a plan in case she did. The way she touched him like she expected him to break, too, but she kept reaching anyway.
He imagined her out there, alone, thinking she’d ruined everything by trying to save him. Thinking he was dead. That thought gnawed at him in ways straw shouldn’t physically allow.
He knew she blamed herself for his fate. Of course she did. Elphaba carried guilt like it was the most important thing to her.
Fiyero didn’t blame her. If anything, he blamed himself for wasting years being the brainless prince.
He didn’t need a brain from the wizard. He didn’t need a heart either. He just needed her voice calling his name soft or angry or both and anything in between.
Because if she called, he knew that no matter what he was made of now, he’d find a way to get to her. Even if every step hurt like hell and left a trail of straw behind him.