One reviewer has noted that our use of the immediate past tense is faulty; thanks for the heads up, we're working on this!
The moment passes - and before he knows it, she's slamming the books against his chest with a sharp reminder of where they are and why they're there. He stumbles back, finally tearing his gaze from her face - she shouldn't be that captivating as she glares at him – but it's her final comment which he really takes to.
"So…you admit I am charming."
.
She almost walks into the bookshelf at that, catching herself just in time.
"You," she calls over her shoulder, caught between exasperation and an undeniable squirm of delight at how hard he's fighting, keeping the argument going against all the odds, "are incorrigible."
She begins pushing handfuls of books into their corresponding shelves, careful to breathe through her mouth to avoid the whirlwind of fresh dust.
"I said pretending. There's a difference. Tell me, Tiggular, were you this impossible at your last…what was it?" She tilts her head to one side in mock-concentration, pretending to count up the number on bony fingers, "Ah yes – seven universities?"
His chuckle – low and rumbling and rough like velvet and oh, for Oz's sake, just listen to her – makes it very clear he couldn't care less about that fact, or at least, is doing a very good job of pretending he couldn't care less.
"Well, no wonder they kicked you out," she sniffs, slamming a book shut with a little more force than necessary. "How exactly do you expect to get anywhere in life with an attitude such as yours?"
.
"Eight. It was eight universities."
And dozens of tutors, not that she needs to know. Her mutinous expression is enough to coax another quiet laugh from him as another three books are ruthlessly thumped back into place, her sleeve slipping back to reveal a slender wrist and more smooth, emerald skin – not that he cares.
"I believe I've already made my intentions clear. I have none." He remembers the book in his hand and, not bothering to look at the author and determine where it really should go, saunters up behind her, using his extra inches to reach over her head. "The throne is mine in a few years and until then, I'm simply…dancing through life."
.
Oz-damnit, what is that boy doing, what is he playing at, what is this. His chest presses lightly to the curve of her shoulder, breath dusting across her hair as he speaks. His scent is soft, and heady, and so decidedly him: rich fabrics, hair gel and hint of alcohol. She fights back a shiver, silently cursing herself. Her fingers flex, itching to cast a spell and send him flying halfway across the library because that would teach surely him a lesson, but with Nikidick over in the corner, she doesn't dare.
"How?" she demands instead, rounding on him. "How can you think like that? How can anyonein Oz think like that? Of all is the irresponsible, insensitive – for Oz's sake, any other Ozian would give their right arm to be in your shoes!"
I would, she thinks silently, before swallowing hard and banishing all thoughts of Nessa and Father and late-night arguments where she'd shouted herself hoarse and…in light of my daughter's condition, thought it best to propose a small revision to the governors' line of succession…
.
She's shouting - again – eyes blazing as she faces him, and he really shouldn't be as focused on he is on her lips when the air is practically vibrating around him.
Of course. At first glance, who wouldn't want to be in his shoes? Who wouldn't want to be the popular kid with the royal title slapped on? Especially when they had no idea of what exactly came with it. At Shiz, its easy to forget the responsibility that await him back home, the sheer weight of knowing he'll be in his father's place, ruling millions...she may be the governor's daughter, but a governor is so far from royalty that she wouldn't know.
.
"To…to hold such an honour," she goes on, shaking the memories away, fighting to keep the strength in her voice, "to have a throne awaiting you, to have the chance to make a shred of difference in this land, you – you have no idea - you treat your legacy as something to be laughed away, something far-off, easy-going, trivial – little more than a joke!"
.
"That's because it is!" he tries to protest. "The whole thing is a joke -!"
But she doesn't stop, closing the gap between them, her face twisted with something…something personal; it seems he's touched on the same sore nerve as before and she's very quickly stomping onto thin ice herself.
.
"Answer me this, Tiggular." She's close, too close to him, unable to help herself, up in his face, "How exactly do you plan to rule your people if you don't know the first Oz-damned thing about them? How will you bring about the end of the Great Drought for good, if you won't even write a proper essay about it? How will you help the Animals' regain their deserved rights if you can't be bothered even listening to an Animal professor? How will you live up to the expectations of millions when you can't even live up to those of your own father?!"
.
He doesn't move. He can feel his suave facade slipping away, even as he towers over a panting Elphaba.
"Y-You're right. Yeah, I've – I've disappointed my father, my family, my ancestors. What royal gets himself kicked out of university after university? What royal couldn't give less thought to politics and more to a pretty face? How could a royal like that deserve a throne - unprepared and apathetic? But does that matter - no! Because no matter what I do I will still be a prince, I will still be next in line, and I will still rule. It doesn't matter what I do or say or how far I run because no matter what, my bloodline dictates I will be king!"
.
There's something raw and fractured in Tiggular's voice that makes her pause. Sweet Oz, she's hit a nerve. A nerve every bit as powerful as the one he'd hit in her, only moments ago. Is that really…shame she can see, brimming over somewhere in the depths of those cool blue eyes? Is that guilt – remorse even, in the clenched set of his jaw and the trembling hands he gestures wildly at her?
Her heart thumps with a mixture of pity and – the oddest sense of relief, in spite of herself. It's like seeing him, the real him, for the first time. Her stomach swoops at the realisation, though she hardly knows why.
Of course, she doesn't give two twigs what his true character is, but it's her responsibility to know, for Galinda's sake, obviously, seeing as they're friends now, and she should know things like this, should know him like this; raw, vulnerable, open, voice ringing with real emotion and eyes burning with a sheer, total, absolute feeling that sends shivers down her spine…
…Fiyero, she thinks, and for the first time, it feels right to use his name, rather than the pretentious family title that spoke to his heritage more than his character. Fiyero.
It's only when he blinks at her in dumbfounded shock that she realises the name has escaped her lips out loud.
"- I – you talk as if –" She's practically choking to cover her tracks, but she won't let herself break his gaze, she won't, she won't. "- You talk as if you don't even want it. The throne. Why? Why is that?"
Her tone is measured, but the words still rattle out like gunfire, demanding answers.
"Don't you care about the Vinkuns, about your homeland, about its future? Contrary to what Galinda's silly tabloids would have us believe, it seems you do care for your father's opinion of you, a great deal. What's more, you do comprehend the gravity of your actions – not to mention, the sheer stupidity of them. Then why not simply pick yourself up? Put in the damn effort? Become the heir your people deserve? It doesn't make a shred of sense. And if you'd truly rather throw away the throne…"
She hesitates, biting back a poisoness remark and mellowing her voice instead, remembering the way he'd looked only moments ago: the earnestness, the honesty, the surprising awareness of the world – and of himself – that he clearly possessed in spades, "…well, what in Oz's name do you want to do with your life?"
.
Later, he'll realize the mistake he's made.
But now all he can feel is his heart racing and the weight of the world on his shoulders, forcing him down, dragging him back to Vinkus and his father and the goddamned crown.
Later he'll fervently plan how he'll prevent himself from ever slipping again, how he'll ensure no one else will know, how he'll play the shallow prince and how he'll make himself believe that that's what he is. That that is how he'll be happy.
But right now...
"Tell me, Thropp," he doesn't spit her name, but the bitterness is there, "do you think I'm fit for the throne? A kingdom? The power to order armies and sway millions?"
Because he does love his country, his family. He does care. And for that, he'll do whatever he can to prove that he doesn't, if only to show them he isn't what they want. What they deserve.
"Do you think my linage alone decides I am suitable for any of that? My father does, my family does – hell, the whole of Vinkus does! But does that make it right?!"
.
"Of course it doesn't, you idiot, of course it's an outdated tradition, of course lineage alone should never dictate the value of a ruler, but that," she cries, arms thrown up again in frustration, "is entirely beside the point! What matters is here and now, Tiggular, and yes, of course you are about as fit for the throne as Avaric is, of course you are unsuitable, but what does that matter? Oz, were you even listening to me –"
She shakes her head in disbelief, running a hand through her hair.
"Quit with the sob story and do something about it. I said it before and I'll say it again: pick yourself up. Put in the damn effort. Become the heir your people deserve. Is that so hard for you to comprehend? Is that idea so impossible to you?"
She squints at his face, taking in the pain, the guilt, the anger…Oz, she can't understand it. Can't understand him. Doe he really have that little faith in himself? The idea makes no sense to her, the concept of being so innately unworthy that even hard work and brute determination could never fix it. Nonsense, pure nonsense.
Hard work and determination could fix anything. Surely he knew that?
.
"It's – I – well –"
Fiyero finds himself choking on his tongue as she glares at him, shouting brutal honesty like no other. And it hurts, it does – but it'd be a lie to say he doesn't hang on every word.
He steps back, torn between pouring his heart out and throwing up his walls again. But Thropp wants no sob story and he knows he's given up enough.
"Because – because it's pointless! After a decade of not trying, how can a few years do anything?"
Better, some dark part of him decides, to stay on this track. Life's more painless, for the brainless...
.
And then, just like that…his entire demeanor changes. The raw, real, honest side of Fiyero she's been privy to trickles away like rainwater, all the shame and world-wearied resignation and deep-seated fervor and honesty and want dissolving into nothing.
.
He forces himself to smile, stretching his lips into a grimace of teeth and charm because that's what he knows how to do - that's all he knows. And the longer he puts up the façade, the more he'll believe it.
"Besides, why – why change anything…when I've already got this school wrapped around my little finger?"
.
Oh, so they're going to play that game, are they? The game where he lapses back into a brainless playboy whenever she digs too close to the truth? The grin that stretches across his face is painfully, blindingly wide and she resists the urge to scream with frustration at the sight of it.
Clearly, she's hit the nail on the head. And he's simply too Oz-damned cowardly to admit it.
"You've given up." Her voice is flat, toneless, a statement of fact. "You'd rather proclaim defeat right now than even attempt to make something of yourself. You'd rather cling to that stupid, shallow, devil-may-care façade than risk trying and failing to become the ruler your people deserve. You've convinced yourself it's too late, it's been too long, it won't be enough…"
The thousand-watt grin falters just a little at that, and she dives in for the kill – "You'd rather tell yourself it's hopeless and cling to some flimsy, superficial semblance of fame you've built up for yourself than even tryto fix things, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?"
Her gaze is cold and withering, like he's something nasty on the end of her shoe, something too pitiful even bother getting shouting about. She feels no anger, anymore. Just a cool, absolute detachment.
She is done with him.
"Well, you may have fooled yourself, Tiggular. But you'll have to do better than that to fool me."
She turns on her heel and disappears back into the sea of bookshelves without another word.
Guys, PainicPicnic and I are having the best time with this story and we appreciate the support so much. Shout out to Indy'sGreenHat and RavenCurls for loyally reviewing every single chapter so far - you guys are absolute sweethearts. Readers, check out their stories and show them some love!
