A/N: Don't even ask, I swear. It started out as a "rant", but turned into something more random -shifty gaze-

Happy birthday, Zarri -hearts-

...I'll probably end up taking this down xD. Just as a warning.

Birthday Bombast

(Also known as Woes of the Undervalued Characters)

--

CRASH!

Startled from his scheduled session of staring into space, Tibbett jumped. "Everything all right?" he called warily.

"No, everything's not all right," Crope replied, stamping into the room with a glare akin to that of a four year old throwing a temper tantrum because the square peg won't fit into the round hole.

Tibbett frowned. "Whatever's the matter this time?" he grumbled. Recently his lover had been going off on tangents about whatever irked him at the moment; he wasn't sure he wanted to hear this one.

Crope sat down on the floor with a loud 'huff'. "I'll tell you what the matter is," he said, crossing his arms rather childishly. "Fanfiction writers."

"Oh, Lurline, not them again." This was probably the rant Crope enjoyed most; every time it came up, he found more and more evidence to support his claims.

"Yes, them again!" Crope said indignantly. "Honestly, it's like we don't even exist! I bet you they wouldn't even know our names if we passed them in the street."

"Ignoring the fact that we can't pass them in the street," Tibbett interrupted smarmily.

"Do you know how many stories there are about us?" Crope continued, ignoring his lover.

"How many?" Tibbett asked compulsorily, beginning to stare off into space again: this tirade wasn't as interesting the fifth time around… that week.

"Eight!" Crope cried, throwing his hands in the air. "Eight! Over two thousand fanfictions- and that's not even counting the ones in Books and Musicals-slash-Plays, mind you- and we get eight lousy stories."

Tibbett rolled his eyes. "That's nice, dearest."

"And furthermore, you'd think we were quite literally attached at the hip or something- oh don't give me that look, that's not what I meant. Honestly."

"What did you mean, then?"

"I mean it's Tibbett-and-Crope or Crope-and-Tibbett. Never just Crope or just Tibbett, mind you, unless it's one of us angsting about the other not being with them. Really, it's like we're Bert and Ernie or something!"

"Who the hell are Bert and Ernie?"

Crope blinked. "I have no clue." He paused before swearing loudly. "Damn fanfiction writers!" he yelled, causing Tibbett to snort under his breath. "Why the hell have they not learned to avoid anachronisms?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," Tibbett said, smirking as Crope sent him a dark glare. "They find their readers connect more easily with cosmopolitan- or Ozmopolitan, if you must- analogies than something completely foreign."

"Ozmopolitan," Crope repeated with a dark look. "Damn musical."

"Oh, don't even get me started on the musical!" Avaric cried, randomly popping into the room and sprawling out onto the couch. "They made me driver to that heathen prince."

"At least you were in the musical," Crope grumbled at the same time that Tibbett asked, "Don't you like Fiyero?"

"I would rather have existed as the sexy piece of ass that was only in the book than have a random cameo in the musical as a servant," Avaric explained. "And yeah, he was all right until he decided to steal my personality and my reputation as the scandalous one. Damn musical."

"Now, students, the musical isn't that bad," Dr. Dillamond said as he trotted past.

Crope snorted. "This coming from the Goat that gets to survive in the musical and gets a song of his own."

Dillamond paused, looking positively aghast. "Now, that's not fair." There was a long pause in which the boys looked at him pointedly. "I had to share the song with Miss Elphaba," he said finally, his tone far meeker than usual.

"My point exactly," Avaric said as he flopped back down on his back.

"Well!" Dillamond sniffled before hastily making his exit.

Milla, also randomly appearing, sat down in front of the couch as she rolled her eyes. "So what's up?" she asked as the noise died down again.

"INAPPROPRIATE COLLOQUIALISM!" Crope cried, beginning to rock back and forth. "Ozians don't say 'what's up'!"

"Sure they do," Tibbett said gently, sliding his arm around his lover's shoulders, attempting to calm him down.

Crope shook his head violently. "Nooo, it's another one of those damn phrases the fanfiction writers have passed off as canon. You know," here he paused for dramatic effect, lowering his voice, "fanon."

Milla rolled her eyes again. "Ooookay, then," she said, drawing the syllable out to an extreme. "How are you all?"

"Bored," Avaric said with a long-suffering sigh.

"There's nothing to do," Tibbett said with a similar sigh.

Milla pursed her lips in concentration. "Well, if you want to do something, I know there's a birthday today."

"A birthday?" Crope said excitedly, the tears gone, only to be replaced by a gleam in his eye. "Is there a party? Will there be cake? Can we wear dresses?"

Milla snorted. "No, no party or cake… or dresses… but we can make something as a present."

Avaric gave her a side-long look. "Whose birthday is it?" he asked, suspicion lining his tone.

She bit her lip. "Zarrian," she said meekly.

Chaos reigned.

"What the hell? She-"

"- damn fanfiction writers-"

"- hook me up with Nessa-"

"HEY!" Milla yelled, trying to get them to shut up. "Be grateful," she said with a pointed look. "She actually wrote about you guys."

"Yeah," said Crope with a disbelieving scoff, "in a crack crossover parody that barely mentioned us."

"And made another gay joke," Tibbett added.

"You find those funny," Milla pointed out.

Tibbett blinked. "Yeah, so, what's your point?"

She shook her head. "Moving right along… Avaric, she wrote about you, too."

He grumbled. "Yes, in a damn oneshot in which I'm lusting over the armless freak."

"She still wrote about you."

Avaric sighed. "Fine, yeah, whatever. I'll make a card, happy?"

"Yes," Milla said, smiling triumphantly.

After hours- okay, half an hour- fine! fifteen minutes on Avaric's part, the slipshod birthday preparations were complete.

"What's going on?" a blonde girl asked as she walked in, her special 'zotv' laptop in hand.

"Happy birthday!" everyone cried (albeit grudgingly for the most part).

The girl known as Zarri jumped, a grin forming on her face. "Thank you!" she cried, taking the cards and various paraphernalia from them. "But…" her voice died as she eyed the four with scrutiny. "Who exactly are you? I swear, the names are on the tip of my tongue…"

Crope screamed.