Elphaba found herself laughing—actually laughing—at whatever ridiculous thing Galinda had just said to Fiyero in the middle of the crowded cafeteria. The sound felt foreign, even to her own ears, but there it was, slipping out before she could stop it. She almost wanted to clasp a hand over her mouth, as if to take it back, but the amused glint in Galinda’s eyes and the way Fiyero’s grin widened made her hesitate. It was strange, this newfound dynamic between them, as if the careful walls she had built around herself had been dismantled brick by brick without her even noticing. They were all friends now, somehow, and even Pfannee, of all people, was smiling from across the table, as if it had always been this way. The usual sharpness in her expression had softened, and for once, there was no trace of condescension or malice. The air around them felt lighter, easier—like something unspoken had shifted, settling into place in a way that made Elphaba uneasy but not entirely unwilling to accept it.
Strange, too, was the absence of cruelty. No whispers behind her back, no pointed fingers, no one calling her an artichoke because of her skin. The silence where mockery used to be felt almost as loud as the laughter around her, but it wasn’t an absence she mourned. Instead, she was met with warmth, with easy conversation, with Galinda’s relentless, affectionate touches—her hand brushing Elphaba’s arm, fingers grazing her wrist, casual, constant contact every five minutes. That, perhaps, was the strangest thing of all.
Elphaba had never been touched this much in her entire life. In the most literal sense of the word. Her childhood had been devoid of idle affection; touch had always come with purpose—her father’s stern grip on her shoulder, Dulcibear perfunctory adjustments of her clothes, Nessarose clinging to her not for comfort but necessity. But Galinda touched without thinking, without hesitation, as if Elphaba’s presence invited it, as if she didn’t see the sharp angles, the green skin, the walls Elphaba had spent years fortifying. It wasn’t uncomfortable—far from it. But it was… strange. Strange to be seen and not recoiled from. Strange to be included so effortlessly. Strange to find herself wanting more of it.
She wasn’t used to warmth pressed against her, fingers ghosting over her wrist, casual brushes of skin that held no malice, no cruelty. It was new, disorienting. Pleasant in a way she didn’t know how to process. Each touch left something behind—a lingering awareness, a quiet hum beneath her skin that refused to fade. It wasn’t unwelcome, but it unsettled her nonetheless.
So later that evening, when they finally made it back to their dorm after enduring another exhausting lecture, Elphaba did something she hadn’t dared to before. She caught Galinda’s hand mid-motion, stopping it before it could land, once again, on her wrist.
"Galinda…"
The blonde blinked at her, wide-eyed and expectant. "Elphie?"
There was no teasing in her tone, no immediate quip or dramatic flutter of lashes. Just her voice, soft and questioning, as if Elphaba had asked her something delicate without speaking at all.
Elphaba could still feel the warmth of Galinda’s fingers against her palm, the slight tension where she held them in place. Her grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t forceful—it was hesitant, uncertain, as if letting go might mean losing something she hadn’t even realized she was holding on to.
She licked her lips, searching for the right words, but all that came was the quiet truth of it.
Elphaba swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Those big brown eyes were looking at her with something soft. Something knowing. It made her pulse trip over itself.
"Can you stop, please?" Her voice was quieter than she meant it to be.
Galinda tilted her head, brows knitting together. "Stop what?"
Elphaba exhaled sharply. "Touching me," she clarified, shifting her grip so their hands no longer touched. "You—You touch me all the time."
Galinda’s lips parted in surprise, her expression falling into something almost wounded. Her eyes glistened as if the words had cut too deep, like Elphaba had reached out and shoved her away.
"You don’t like it?!" she gasped, voice thin with distress. "Elphie, I’m so sorry, I—"
Galinda’s breath hitched, and before Elphaba could say anything, she was already spiraling.
"Oh, Elphie, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable! I just—I never even thought—of course, you wouldn’t like it, why would you? I’ve been so inconsiderate, haven’t I?" Her words tumbled out in a desperate rush, her voice thick with emotion. "I should’ve asked!"
Her hands flailed as she spoke, as if trying to grasp onto something solid, but she quickly yanked them back to her chest, clasping them together as if restraining herself. "I’m the worst friend ever. I— I promise I won’t do it again! Ever!"
Her lower lip wobbled, and before Elphaba even realized what was happening, Galinda’s eyes filled with tears.
Oh, for the love of—
"Galinda." Elphaba sighed, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. "That’s not what I meant."
But Galinda wasn’t listening. "No, no! I’m serious! I’ll keep my hands to myself forever! I’ll— I’ll wear gloves! Or tie them behind my back if I have to! I swear, Elphie, I—"
"Galinda."
The blonde froze at the sound of her name, blinking rapidly as a few tears slipped down her cheeks.
Elphaba exhaled through her nose, rubbing a hand down her face before stepping closer. Hesitantly—awkwardly—she placed a hand on Galinda’s shoulder, feeling her tremble beneath her touch.
"You don’t have to do all that," she said, her voice softer now. "I didn’t say I hate it. It’s just… new. I don’t know what to do with it. With you."
Galinda sniffled, looking up at her with wide, glassy eyes. "So… you don’t want me to stop forever?"
Elphaba fought the urge to roll her eyes. "No, you dramatic ninny. Just—maybe not all the time."
Galinda blinked. Then, slowly, a small, hopeful smile crept onto her face. "So… every ten minutes instead of five?"
Elphaba groaned. "Galinda."
But Galinda only giggled, wiping at her tears. "Alright, alright. I promise I’ll try to be less... grabby." She placed a hand over her heart as if making a solemn vow. "For you, Elphie, I’ll do my best."
Elphaba sighed. "That’s all I ask."
Galinda hummed, swaying on her feet, watching her with an almost mischievous glint. "You know… If you ever change your mind, I do give excellent hugs."
Elphaba gave her a flat look.
Galinda beamed anyway.
Galinda was trying too hard. Elphaba realized it almost immediately.
The days following their conversation were nothing short of torment—though, oddly enough, not for the reasons she expected. Galinda, ever dramatic, had taken her promise to heart with the kind of overzealous dedication that made Elphaba question whether she had just created a problem even worse than before.
Now, instead of reaching for Elphaba’s hand like she used to—without thought, without hesitation—Galinda drummed her fingers restlessly against the wooden surface of their classroom desks. She fidgeted with the lace trim of her sleeves, with the edges of her notebooks, with the pearls around her throat—anything to keep her hands occupied, anything but touching Elphaba.
And, Stars above, it was unbearable.
It wasn't just the absence of touch itself. It was the deliberate effort behind it, the obvious restraint, the way Galinda would reach instinctively for Elphaba’s arm only to pull back at the last second as if burned. It was the way she bounced her leg under the desk, the way her fingers twitched as if itching to reach out. It was the way she forced herself to keep her hands to herself, as if denying an essential part of her own nature.
It was the fact that Elphaba saw all of this—noticed all of it—and found herself missing the contact terribly.
It was absurd. It was illogical. It was ridiculous. And yet, here she was, sitting stiffly in her seat, trying not to acknowledge the ache in her chest when Galinda’s hand hovered close but never quite touched.
Elphaba spent her childhood without touch. Not in the way that most children experienced it, with warm embraces after nightmares or reassuring pats on the back when they did something well. No, for her, touch had been a rarity—something distant, something she watched but never truly received. Her nanny, Dulcibear, the Bear who had cared for her in her earliest years, had been the only exception. A presence both comforting and fleeting, the closest thing she ever had to warmth.
Her father, however, had never so much as placed a hand on her shoulder. He pretended she didn’t exist, pouring all of his attention, his doting words, his careful gestures into Nessa, her sister. Nessa, who was fragile. Nessa, who was delicate. Nessa, who was everything Elphaba wasn’t. If their father ever touched her, it was only in moments of strict correction—gripping her arm to lead her away, pushing books into her hands with clipped words of instruction. Never affection. Never tenderness.
So, when Galinda entered her life with all her unfiltered, unapologetic closeness—grabbing her hand, linking their arms, pressing into her side like it was the most natural thing in the world—Elphaba didn’t know what to do with it. She had gone from a life without touch to one where it was constant, where someone wanted to be close to her, wanted to hold her hand without hesitation. At first, it overwhelmed her. Confused her. But as the days passed, she realized that the feeling stirring inside her wasn’t discomfort.
It was hunger.
A hunger for something she had never known she needed. A hunger for warmth, for connection, for the simple pleasure of another’s presence against her own.
And then, in a moment of unthinking self-preservation, she had pushed Galinda away.
By accident.
By instinct.
And now, that warmth was gone.
And she hated it.
Elphaba wanted the touching back. She decided that a week later, after countless moments of silence stretched too long between them, after the absence of warmth had settled into something she could no longer ignore. The coldness creeping between her and Galinda was unnatural—wrong, even. It felt like something foreign had wedged itself into the space they used to share so effortlessly, something that had no right to be there in the first place.
But wanting and acting were two very different things. And if there was one thing Elphaba had never been particularly skilled at, it was navigating the delicate intricacies of social interaction. How did she even begin to say it? That she missed the feeling of Galinda’s hand in hers? That the absence of those casual, fleeting touches made her feel unmoored, as if she had lost something vital without even realizing it?
She imagined saying it aloud, the words forming and dying on her tongue. It was ridiculous, really. Galinda probably hadn't even noticed the change. Or if she had, she certainly hadn't said anything. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe Elphaba was the only one feeling the weight of this invisible wall between them.
But what if she wasn’t?
The thought made her stomach twist, the possibility sparking something hesitant, something hopeful.
Still, she didn't know how to bridge the distance. How to reach out when every instinct told her to retreat.
That night, a torrential storm raged outside. Rain lashed against the windows in relentless sheets, and the wind howled through the cracks like a living thing, slipping into the room with a biting chill.
Galinda woke with a sharp gasp, bolting upright in bed. Her breaths came in ragged, uneven pants, and her hands clutched at the blankets as though anchoring herself to something solid. Elphaba, half-drifting in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, cracked one eye open, then sighed.
“Galinda?” Her voice was thick with drowsiness.
The blonde didn’t respond at first. She just sat there, her gaze fixed on the dark, her entire frame trembling. Elphaba hesitated. She was awful at this—at comforting, at knowing what to say. But there was something about the way Galinda shook, something raw and vulnerable, that made Elphaba push past her own discomfort.
Awkwardly, stiffly, she rose from her bed and crossed the short distance between them. She settled on the edge of Galinda’s mattress, then—after a brief, silent battle with herself—wrapped an arm around her roommate’s shoulders. A small, hesitant squeeze.
It was supposed to be brief, just enough to ground Galinda, to offer a shred of reassurance. But the moment Elphaba made contact, Galinda turned into her, burying her face against Elphaba’s shoulder, clinging to her as though she might disappear. Without thinking, Elphaba tightened her hold.
She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that—Galinda curled against her, breath warm against her collarbone, the storm outside forgotten. Slowly, the blonde’s shaking subsided, her breathing evened out.
And then—before Elphaba could process what was happening—Galinda shifted, tilting her head up, and pressed her lips to Elphaba’s.
Soft. Tentative. A whisper of a kiss, so fleeting that for a second, Elphaba wasn’t even sure if it had really happened.
Then Galinda jerked back, eyes wide, panic flooding her expression.
“Oh—oh, I—I shouldn’t have—” she stammered, shaking her head frantically, already scrambling away. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I— I’ll stop, I promise, I’ll—”
Elphaba caught her wrist before she could retreat too far, her fingers curling around it, warm and steady.
“You don’t have to,” Elphaba murmured, her voice lower than she intended. “You don’t have to stop.”
Galinda froze, her breath catching. “But you said… you hate hugs. And if you hate hugs, you’d hate kisses, and I—”
“Galinda,” Elphaba interrupted, her voice firmer now.
“And I’m bothering you again, and—”
“Galinda.”
“And, Elphie, I—”
“For the love of Oz.” Elphaba exhaled sharply, her grip on Galinda’s wrist just firm enough to ground her. “Galinda Upland.”
That did it. The name sliced through her spiraling thoughts, stopping her mid-sentence.
Elphaba swallowed, her heart a violent drum against her ribs. Her pulse was erratic, her hands clammy, but she forced herself to hold Galinda’s gaze, to steady the quiver in her voice.
“I don’t care,” she admitted.
Silence stretched between them, thick, humming with something unspoken. Galinda’s lips parted slightly, her eyes searching Elphaba’s face, as if waiting for hesitation, resistance—anything that would tell her this wasn’t real.
But Elphaba wasn’t pulling away.
Slowly, cautiously, Galinda leaned in again.
This time, Elphaba met her halfway.