A/N: Hello! After months of writing I am beyond excited to share this story with you. This story is fully written with thirty-four chapters and an epilogue. It will be updated regularly. Musicalverse Inspired AU. Fiyeraba. This story has elements of angst with an ultimate happy ending. There is also plenty of romance, humor, and dramatic irony to balance it out. Reviews are loved and deeply appreciated.

Rating & Content Advisories: This story has a T rating for mild language, non-explicit sex, and some non-explicit violence. Content Advisories will be noted before each chapter for the sake of informed accessibility. My ask box is always open for questions, elaboration, or to request an advisory edit or addition.

Inspiration Drawn From: Wicked Music & Lyrics by Stephen Schwartz, Book by Winnie Holzman (2003 Musical, 2001 Workshop Recording, San Francisco Try Out), Defying Gravity: The Creative Career of Stephen Schwartz by Carol de Giere (2018 Edition Biography), Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire (1995 Novel), The Wizard of Oz (1939 Film), The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum (1900 Novel), Parfumerie by Miklós László (1937 Play), The Shop Around the Corner (1940 Film), In The Good Old Summertime (1949 Film), She Loves Me by Music & Lyrics by Jerry Bock & Sheldon Harnick, Book by Joe Masteroff (1963 Musical), You've Got Mail (1998 Film), Daddy Long Legs by Music & Lyrics by Paul Gordon, Book by John Caird (2009 Musical)

Content Advisory: Self-deprecating thoughts


Chapter One: Dear Stranger

"It sounds stupid."

It was stupid, and Elphaba never would have done it if Nessarose hadn't begged.

Elphaba, try as she might, had never possessed the power to deny her sister anything. Nessarose's wide eyes and pouting lip had successfully swindled Elphaba into taking up, and quitting as soon as Nessarose tired of it, dozens of activities from quilting to flower arranging.

"Please, Elphaba? I don't want to sign up alone," Nessarose pleaded, reaching for her sister's hand to give it a bargaining squeeze.

Elphaba groaned and squeezed Nessarose's hand back in defeat.

"Fine, Nessa. I'll sign up too."

The Ozian Pen Pal Program.

The sign-up booths had started cropping up around mid-February, always complete with a chipper volunteer to lure in potential participants. It took no time for Nessarose, who had a poetic outlook on life, to romanticize the idea. Their father hadn't been keen on it at first. The program randomly matched people from all over Oz and he didn't want his precious girl getting exposed to ideas from people outside of the community he'd meticulously curated for her. However, after a flowery speech Nessarose gave over dinner about how "rewarding it would be to spread the word of the Unnamed God through writing," he was sufficiently buttered up.

Father, it seemed, suffered from the same challenge Elphaba did when it came to saying no to Nessarose.

"Are you signing up?" a Munchkin woman chirped upon noticing the sisters slow down near her booth.

"Yes! Yes, we are," Nessarose confirmed eagerly, wheeling herself over before Elphaba could back out.

"Oh goody! Someone out there is about to be very lucky to be matched with the Governor's daughter," the booth lady flattered Nessarose. "Your new pal can be anyone from anywhere, you know! People say that even The Wizard himself signed up for the program!"

"So, you're saying that The Wizard finds time in his busy schedule to write letters to a random stranger?" Elphaba said skeptically. "Do people actually buy that?"

"Elphaba…" Nessarose warned.

The booth lady's face dropped into an insulted scowl, plainly used to people being more impressed by her claim. Her nose wrinkled as she handed Elphaba her form.

"You know, dear. The program lets you stay anonymous. If I were you I'd keep it that way."

That evening, like every evening, Elphaba stood behind Nessarose and brushed her hair one hundred strokes exactly.

"I wonder where my pen pal is from. I hope The Emerald City. Wouldn't that be grand? Then when we get close they could invite me to visit. Or what if they're local? They could be our next-door neighbor for all we know. Oh, Elphaba. Isn't it wonderful? We could be writing to our new best friend!"

"One hundred," Elphaba announced, before setting the hairbrush on her sister's vanity.

In truth it had only been ninety strokes, but she counted on Nessarose being too distracted to tell. She helped her sister into bed and, at her request, fetched her some stationary and a pen.

"I know this is exciting for you, but Nessa, don't get your hopes up too high," Elphaba advised. "The odds that you'll have some instant connection with a random person aren't very likely. I don't want you to be let down."

"Hush, Elphaba. If you go into this with that kind of attitude then nothing good will come of it. Won't you please just give this an honest go?" she asked before tacking on a sweet, "for me?"

There it was again. Nessarose's own special form of magic.

"Of course, Nessa. I'll give it an honest go."

"You owe me ten extra brushes tomorrow, by the way."

Elphaba made an impressed sound and planted a goodnight kiss on her sister's cheek.

"Don't stay up too late."

Promises to Nessarose were easy to make at the moment, but that night in her attic bedroom far from her sister's batted eyelashes, Elphaba realized that following through may be easier said than done.

An honest go.

Did an honest go have to require honesty? As Elphaba sat at her shabby desk, crumpled pages strewn across her floorboards, she couldn't think of much she cared to be honest about.

"Dear stranger. My name is Elphaba Thropp. I have green skin and a personality so awful that even my father hates me. Would you like to be friends?" she read aloud before viciously scratching out the pathetic intro.

Elphaba was good at many things. Reading a novel in a single sitting, recollecting historical dates, cooking breakfast, making clothes, hell—she was even a gifted needle pointer, a talent she'd discovered from another one of Nessarose's abandoned phases.

Getting people to like her was not among her skills.

Elphaba had maintained a record of zero friends in her lifetime. She had no school chums, no playmates, no acquaintances. Most vendors she did business with in town completed the necessary transactions in complete silence while wearing gloves, lest Elphaba's skin affliction contaminated their produce supply. Why, when her track record was so poor indeed, should she expect to befriend someone by writing a stupid letter?

You know, dear. The program lets you stay anonymous. If I were you I'd keep it that way.

They explained how it worked, after all. Upon signing up you were assigned an identification number, a "pen pal pin!" as they so preciously put it. You simply addressed your letter to the program headquarters, included the pin for your match, and they did the rest. The person you were writing to need never know your address…they need never even know your name.

How different her life could be, Elphaba thought, if she were able to live…anonymously.

Gritting her teeth in determination, Elphaba pulled out a fresh sheet of stationary. As she poised her pen to paper, a cynical laugh escaped her lips. She'd been sitting for an hour without a word on a page to show for it, revealing how poorly she'd followed her own advice about not getting her hopes up.

Dear Pen Pal #6144,

They told me to address the first letter that way. I'm twenty-one years old, I'm female, and I really didn't want to sign up for this program.

If you couldn't tell by my intro, this "pen pal" thing is new to me. I'm struggling to think of anything that's possibly worth writing to a stranger. I suppose when people meet in real life, they share things about themselves but, take no offense to this, I don't care to share many details with you. You could be a murderer for all I know.

Elphaba smacked her forehead. Why had she written that? She moved to scrap it, hesitated, and ultimately resolved to continue rather than having her current draft join its brothers on the floor.

Not that I think you're a murderer.

Nice save.

The point is, I hope that you respect my decision to not overshare. I guess in the interest of conversation you may tell me one thing you enjoy doing with your time. I like to read.

That can be enough for now. It can be enough forever if you'd like. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't write back, though I confess I'm curious to see if you will.

Signed, Pen Pal #1123

Elphaba sighed and rubbed her eyes under her glasses. Her standoffish stream of consciousness was not likely to garner a warm response…but she'd done it. Lacking the courage to proofread, Elphaba promptly sealed her letter in an envelope before she had the chance to pick it apart.

Both letters were sent out the next morning and responses did not arrive quickly. Elphaba took this more in stride than Nessarose who asked every morning if the mail had arrived.

Elphaba fancied herself an eloquent writer, she had a better than average handle on words, and recalling the clumsy string she'd penned in her letter made her cringe. She began to think, perhaps even hope, that her own recipient would never respond. If she'd even been matched at all, that was. She wouldn't have put it past the volunteer at the table to scrap her application out of spite, or to protect whichever poor soul was fated to match with her. Regardless, if there was never a response, Elphaba would be off the hook. Things could go back to normal.

However, something shifted in Elphaba the day Nessarose at last received her highly anticipated reply. Call it jealousy, but as happy as she was that her sister had gotten a response, Elphaba began feeling—say, curious about getting one of her own.

When Nessarose revealed over dinner that her match was a middle-aged Quadling woman who ran a humble basket stand, her disappointment was evident.

"She'll probably ask for money," their father grunted. "Quadlings always ask for handouts."

"Sounds like you're oversimplifying the poverty in Quadling Country–" Elphaba muttered.

"Silence, Elphaba."

"What could I possibly talk to her about?" Nessarose sighed as she pushed her food around her plate.

"Well, weaving takes some real artistry," Elphaba pointed out. "You could talk to her about your own creative pursuits, your needlepointing–"

"I hate needlepointing!"

"Nessa. I know it's not the glamorous match that you were hoping for. But even if she doesn't become your new best friend you could still–"

"Well at least I had someone write me back!" Nessarose snapped.

Elphaba said nothing for the rest of dinner.

As much as Nessarose's words stung, they only proved truer as the week wore on with no mail for Elphaba. It began to…irritate her. She had followed up on her end, who did this person think they were? Why sign up for a stupid program if they didn't want to write a stupid letter? Her pen pal didn't even know who she was…or the way that she was. She'd shared nothing of herself. Why, then, did Elphaba feel so irrationally rejected?

She knew why. Under the surface, Elphaba knew exactly why the lack of response was getting to her. An unwelcome theory had taken root in her mind, one that was too much to mention yet hard to ward off. What if the reasons nobody liked her weren't superficial at all? What if the thing that made her unlovable was so deeply a part of her…that it could even be sensed through words on a page?

That was what haunted her. That was what hurt.

Maybe it wasn't the green.

Maybe it had always been…her.

The theory made Elphaba's daily trek to the mailbox a distressing chore. She couldn't pinpoint exactly when her hope had run out, she only knew that her expectations were non-existent as she opened the mailbox flap, retrieved that day's stack, and mindlessly thumbed through it as she strolled back towards the manor. Bill. Fundraising solicitation. Unionist bulletin. Letter for Father. Bill.

Elphaba froze in her tracks as a sudden, intense excitement flared in her chest. The giddy reaction was almost embarrassing but she didn't care, for at the bottom of the mail stack was a letter. A letter addressed to Pen Pal #1123.

A letter for her.


Dear Pen Pal #1123,

Hey. I'm twenty-three, male, and also did not want to sign up for this. My tutor assigned it to improve my penmanship or something. She's totally checked out. On that note, sorry it took me so long to respond. You're technically a homework assignment and I always procrastinate on my homework assignments.

I'm all for staying anonymous, by the way. If anyone found out I was doing the pen pal program it wouldn't be awesome for my reputation. The term 'pen pal' is kind of lame, though. Let's just call each other 'stranger' or something.

Anyway, thanks for the letter. Please write back. If you don't, they'll make me get a new person who may not be as cool. So, let's keep the conversation going. Name something you fear, and one secret talent. I fear nothing and my talent is that I can touch my tongue to my nose.

Elphaba scoffed. That was considered a talent? She absentmindedly tried it for herself only to find that she, in fact, could not touch her tongue to her nose. The next item was an instruction written in huge, emphatic letters.

TURN PAGE OVER!

She obliged.

You just tried to touch your nose with your tongue, didn't you?

Elphaba's jaw dropped. He'd managed to outsmart her through a letter! She felt silly, but once the shock wore off, she realized that she was laughing. It was a clever trick and she had to admit…he got her good.

I can't relate to reading for fun, but since you asked me about something I enjoy, I like to dance. I'm damn good at it too.

Signed, Stranger

P.S. Not a murderer.

An amused smirk remained stuck to Elphaba's lips as she read the letter a few times through. He wasn't a murderer, that was a plus, but what was more…he thought she was cool.

"I see I'm not the only one who's been tricked…" she said privately.

Her stranger had a tutor, liked to dance, and could touch his nose with his tongue. He was clever. He made her laugh. Elphaba extracted these details off the page for safekeeping in her mind. The trivial facts weren't much, but Elphaba, who so rarely got to connect with anyone, found them strangely profound. One thing that was immediately clear was that, at least thus far, they didn't have much in common. She had a gut feeling that were she to meet him in real life they wouldn't have much to talk about. Then again, that was a foolish thought. Nobody talked to Elphaba in real life.

Elphaba shook her head, grabbing her paper and pen before such thoughts could invade further. He wanted her to write back, so she'd write back. That was enough.

"Dear Stranger," Elphaba muttered aloud as she wrote. "My secret talent is…"

She stalled. She had an answer, of course. Great lengths had always been taken to keep her magical outbursts secret…but did she consider her curse a talent? Not quite. So, Elphaba sidestepped the can of worms such levels of openness may open to instead to share a more innocent pastime.

My secret talent is needlepointing…and I'm not afraid of anything either.

Elphaba knocked on Nessarose's bedroom door the next day.

"Come in."

"Is your letter ready to send yet? I'll run it out for you," Elphaba offered.

"No, Elphaba," Nessarose laughed. "I'm not going to write a Quadling basket weaver back."

Elphaba frowned at her sister's daintily disguised derision. It was all too clear where she'd picked up such views.

"Nessa," Elphaba appealed, moving to kneel before her sister's chair. "Remember how excited you were before? She could be a very nice lady. Besides, it might do you well to get to know someone outside of Munchkinland—"

"And what is wrong with Munchkinland?" Nessarose challenged.

"Nothing is wrong with Munchkinland–"

"You don't mean that, I know you don't mean that!" Nessarose accused. "I know how much you hate it here, Elphaba!"

"Nessa—"

"I've seen the college brochures, Elphaba. The ones you try to hide? I know how much you want to go, how much you want to leave."

"Hey…" Elphaba said soothingly. "I'm not leaving. I am not leaving you. Okay?"

Nessarose sniffed quietly and Elphaba took her hand.

"Oh, Nessa. Where is this coming from?"

"I just…I don't want to write my pen pal back. Okay?"

"Okay," Elphaba conceded. "You do not have to. I'm sorry that things ended in disappointment."

"Yes, well," Nessarose shrugged dismissively. "It's for the better. I don't need a new friend. After all, I have you."

"You have me," Elphaba confirmed. "You always will."

"Say, you know what I've always wanted to try?" Nessarose perked up. "Harp lessons. Oh, Elphaba. Can't we please take up harp lessons?"

Elphaba slumped her shoulders and suppressed a groan. "Harp lessons?"

"Yes! This one will stick, I know it. I have no idea what I was thinking when I made us sign up for that stupid pen pal program."

"Oh, I don't know…" Elphaba said. Her thumb privately brushed the outgoing letter in her pocket. "It wasn't the worst idea you've had."


Unravel the Riddle: The "pen pal pin" numbers (#1123 and #6144) were intentionally chosen for the characters. Drop a comment if you think you know why!