A/N: Booksical Gelphie
You hate her on principle alone. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not because of the green, though that is revolting and peculiar. It's the silent, superior attitude that really hurts your egotistical little heart and makes you want to rip her eyes out. You go out of your way to humiliate and hurt her, with snide comments and condescending looks, but if anything, they only serve to make her tower over you even more as the better person, her wicked eyes ensnaring you.
The fighting starts soon, and you're not prepared for the ice that is sent your way. You expected burning, white hot words flung at you like cigarette ashes, but instead, she cuts through you with frozen decisiveness that is effective enough to end the argument immediately. You can see the passion, practically feel its tangible presence in the air around her, but her demeanor remains cold. It frightens you, because as much of an oddity as it is, it also excites the rebel in your soul.
You're shocked to find out that it isn't the arguments that get you off. It's just her. You've been thriving on them since she became more open towards you, almost friendly on some occasions. It lightened them, and gave you an escape. But when you plopped that Oz awful hat on her head, you felt the breath and blood abandon your body. "Oh Miss Elphaba," you had said, surprise coloring your words, along with wonder, "you terrible mean thing, you're pretty." You've never quite understood sexual desire; that's not to say you haven't fooled around with older boys before, but they never made you feel anything more than the occasional glimmer of lust. However, Elphaba standing there, an insecure grin on her face and a challenging glimmer in her eyes, makes you feel warm in places you never have before. You try to conceal your blush, cursing the Unnamed God for making you so mortal as to get shivers down your spine when shes brushes against you to put the damned hat away.
You love her, of course. Loving and loathing both start the same, and you think that maybe it got mixed up in your head when you saw how deep her eyes really are. It's the only explanation after months of dancing around each other. She's soulless (or s she claims) so you know she won't, can't, doesn't love you back. Not in the same way. Not even when she gets too close, not even when you're gasping beneath long green fingers, not even when she kisses you so softly before bed. You understand that you are nothing more than a distraction, a stress reliever of sorts. She is the only person you doesn't trip and fall and worship at your feet, and the only person who realizes there is more in your head than bubbles. You don't think about why this makes you so uneasy.
This uneasiness evolves into bone-crushing, heart-ripping pain. A kiss, and then she is gone into a sea of green where your blues and pinks and yellows don't belong. Gone from your life in a clock tick, leaving you breathless yet again, but this time you don't think she'll ease up on the pressure soon enough to prevent you from dying. She doesn't love you, but that fact is just an old wound. The proof that she doesn't care enough to stay is what ruins you.
A month of hopeless waiting is what you fight through, before you plaster on a smile and go about moving her things from your room. And even after her bed is stripped bare, and her meager belongings have vanished from sight, you can still smell the sandalwood and lavender in the air. You wonder if you're the one without a soul.