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It's not that you were insecure about yourself.
No, it was far from it. You were simply... realistic. Many people were not realistic, and that was what got them in trouble most of the time. You knew you weren't the prettiest thing to ever exist, nor were you inherently beautiful by any standard in the hierarchy of Oz.
But you were you, and you were true to yourself (or at least tried to be), and that was far more important than anything else. For you knew deep within that you were the only one who could be you. A friend, long ago, had told you just that. Not one person would ever be able to replace you. You, who had your own feelings, your own emotions—you who looked exactly as you did, did exactly as you did, you who could never be mimicked even by the grandest of actors. The soul within had been created for you in every manner possible. There was no variation to be seen.
Who were you to say they were wrong?
You had grown up wondering what it would be like to be different. Years of a want for more, for something else, for anything beyond what you knew to be true... To say that you were wrong after years of growing to accept everything you were and everything you would ever be? That would be cruel not only to the sanctity of your long-lost friendship but to you, yourself.
You were you, and that was that.
There were many people who went through life banking on their good looks that they never once stopped to think about who they truly were on the inside—how their undesirable personalities may be making them less than to some people.
Beautiful people were all around you at Shiz University.
It was like you couldn't avoid them. At every turn, someone new popped up with a pretty voice, a pretty face, a pretty personality. Then there was the occasional one who was devastatingly beautiful but had the poorest personality of all.
Prince Fiyero seemed to be one of these people.
Oh, Oz, he was far more beautiful than all the people in the land, but that's where things tended to go wrong, yes? Someone so beautiful had to have a terrible personality. Someone who was simply with another person because it was what was "right"—because they went well with each other. Because their faces matched, because their aesthetics were just right, because Galinda believed he was her perfect match.
Maybe you were just bitter.
He wasn't truly a terrible person.
In fact, he'd always been quite nice to you. And he was handsome. And polite. And, if you so dared to say so, the object of which made your heart skip a beat and butterflies to fight with one another in the pit of your stomach.
For all the terrible people who'd ever existed, for all the feelings you held deep within, why'd he have to be so damned beautiful?
You sat out in one of the many gardens of Shiz, book in hand, but you couldn't truly focus on it. You had read something about a mad doctor and a very green monster of various parts and meager attitude, but after the first few paragraphs, the words began to blur.
Your mind was elsewhere, thinking back to the way that Fiyero looked at you in your history class. He looked at you so intently—like there was something he wanted to say, but perhaps he was afraid to.
Foolish thinking. That's all it was.
He was kind to you out of pity, perhaps. He pitied you because you were who you were. He shouldn't, though. Pretty people always seemed to pity you just for existing. (Did they really, or were you just holding onto your negative thoughts for dear life? You didn't need pity, and they did not truly pity you—perhaps they admired you more than you realized. The child within you was begging to be let out, begging to ruin your progress with barely a word.)
You scowled and suddenly slammed your book shut, not even bothering to mark your spot. You'd have to re-read it, anyway.
The voice coming from behind you nearly made you jump out of your skin.
"Goodness," Fiyero said. "Intense reading, hm?"
You glanced back at him, eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
"Your book. Was it truly that bad?"
You blinked slowly and looked down at your book. The brown leather binding it together was soft to the touch. "I—no, it was fine, I just... couldn't focus."
"Couldn't focus? What are you thinking about?" Fiyero asked as he walked over, sitting beside you on the concrete bench. His closeness read of one who believed you were friends.
You wished you were far closer than you truly were. Maybe then it would not make you feel that way.
"You seemed a bit lost there." His smile was kind as always. He seemed genuinely interested, if only for a moment.
"Nothing," you said, letting out a soft sigh. You sit up a bit straighter, looking over at him. "What are you doing out here?"
"Just came to get some air," he said. "It's rather stuffy in that library. So many books, too many things to distract."
"So you come and talk to me?"
"It was just my luck that you were out here as well," he said, unable to hide his smile. "Thought I'd try and see what you were up to."
You frowned at that. The bitterness you held deep within, the one the child within you still grasped at with trembling fingers, was not about to escape just because of his appearance. You looked away, not noticing how his smile faltered.
You had been frustrated most of that morning. It was not fair of you to be this way, to think in such a manner.
You let out a soft sigh.
Were you being realistic? Or were you just being a pessimist? The confidence you held was lacking in this moment, but not because of who you were. No, no, it was more than that.
It was jealousy.
Tendrils of it crawled up the back of your spine, drilling into your nervous system with pinpoint precision. Since the rumor of Fiyero's ultimate relationship with Galinda, you had felt nothing more.
Fiyero cleared his throat and looked at the book you held in your hands. He went to speak again, but you beat him to it.
"Shouldn't you be with Galinda?"
"...What?" His voice had a sound of disbelief. You knew he was thrown off guard immediately.
"You know. Since she's your girlfriend. Isn't it a bit weird to be out here with me?"
"Well—she's not exactly my girlfriend, but who's to say I can't have friends?"
"Friends," you said. "We're not friends, Fiyero." Not like you wanted to be friends, anyway.
Bitterness did not suit you.
"Oh? Then what are we, Y/n? Can't call you a stranger, as that would be a downright lie. What about an acquaintance? Confidant? Playfellow? Ally? Comrade? Some of these are getting quite odd. Stop me when you hear one you like."
You scrunched your nose, unable to hide your obvious amusement. You attempted to play off annoyance instead. "Quit it."
He saw right through you. He always did.
"Quit what? Y/n, you're in a mood, aren't you? Would you rather I come back later?"
"Mood? I'm not in a mood."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"I beg to differ."
"And I beg for you to stop talking for once," you blurted, looking at him with a frown. "I was just trying to read my book, and here you come, waltzing in like you own the place."
He snorted softly. "Like I own the garden, hm? I could, if I so pleased."
You furrowed your brows again, this time the playful annoyance becoming something more. "Right."
He sighed. "Sorry," he said. "But genuinely, Y/n, what—"
"—I would like to read my book in peace and quiet, if you wouldn't mind."
A lie. A tremendous lie, if any. You could not focus. You did not want to. But...
He pursed his lips. He looked away from you, and for a moment, you thought he was going to speak again. But instead, he simply stands, giving you one last look, before he leaves, leaving you with your thoughts and frustrations.
You wished he wouldn't have, but at times, you just had a way with words. You've chased away many people before, even when you didn't mean to. The anger deep-rooted within your soul tended to lash out at the worst possible times.
You hoped he knew you didn't mean it.
A few days have passed since your last encounter with the handsome prince. You were much calmer today, which was a good thing—all things considered, of course. The rumors of the relationship between Fiyero and Galinda had diminished to just that—rumors. You finished a harrowing exam just that morning and passed with flying colors. Now, you were in the cafeteria, poking at a bit of seasoned rice and vegetables. You had already eaten your protein for the day, and you wanted to eat a bit more, but something was bothering you.
He was bothering you.
And of course, he never let you live without confident intrusion.
You liked the intrusion, though you did not let him know that.
Fiyero sat down in front of you, setting down a cup of something steaming—"Hot chocolate."
You looked up at him as he spoke. You raised an eyebrow.
"They had it," he said, motioning over his shoulder. "You look like you could use one." He pushed the frothy drink in front of your tray, and you looked at it, puzzled. "For the love of Oz, just take it."
"Thank you," you countered, looking at him with a small smile. It was faint, sure, but it was there.
His fingers tapped on the table as he watched you, a frown on his lips. "I need you to listen to me for a moment, and it is serious," he said. At your nod, he continued. "I have been thinking of this since you said it the other day. You seemed so sure of yourself. I am not with Galinda. We are not together. We are friends."
So be it.
"Friends, right?" you said, picking up the hot chocolate. Lips pursed slightly as you blew on the liquid to try and cool it down. Steam haunted your line of vision, eyes rapidly blinking as you glanced over at him.
"I am serious, Y/n," he retorted. "We have never dated."
"Do you not go on dates?"
"Do you not spend time with your friends outside of class?"
You pursed your lips as you took a sip of your drink.
"You should," Fiyero said. "I would like to spend time with you outside of class. I think you'd be much more open to talking to me if you got out of the school for once in your life. Perhaps we'd even be better friends."
"I do go out," you countered, setting the cup down. "I do talk to you. We are good friends."
"We are good friends?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Not as good as I would like to be. And yes, you talk to me when I make you, but where do you find yourself outside of school? The Ozdust? The library? The forest where no one can find you? Very outgoing, Y/n, very outgoing."
You leaned against your hand, raising an eyebrow. Had you said something to annoy him? Was he still annoyed with you from the last time you had talked to him?
You could read him like a book. Oh, how you wished you couldn't in times like these.
"Fiyero..."
"What?" he snapped, annoyance present behind the tired lines of his face, but he immediately straightened up, clearing his throat. "Sorry, I just..."
Blue eyes flickered away from you, finding purchase on some of the many faces and trays that filtered to-and-fro from the lunch line to the tables. Roasted meats, steaming vegetables, soft serve ice cream in many, many bowls. He recognized many of the people he saw, but he did not have a name for some of them. There were so many people he had to remember, you included.
He wanted to know you, always. He did not know how to tell you.
You were quiet for but a moment, finding your words during his obvious retreat into himself.
"I'm sorry, too."
He blinked slowly. "For what?"
"For being... well, unkind to you. You didn't deserve that the other day."
He snorted softly. "No, I did not."
"But you got to understand, Fiyero, I..."
"You what, Y/n? Think that you're not good enough for me to talk to?"
At that, you froze. He knew. He knew? How?
You were good enough to talk to him. You were. But there was that inkling, that self-doubt that did more harm than good. Rumors and jealousy and all of the little things that slithered it's way into your very way of life.
Your lips parted, and you would have spoken had it not been for him beating you to it.
"I'm not blind, Y/n. I try to act like I am at times, but truly, I can see what you think of me."
Wide-eyed, you immediately said: "I do not think badly of you, Fiyero."
"Oh, but you do, and I understand it."
"No? No, you do not understand—"
"—to a degree, I understand it. I will not sit here and pretend that we... know each other well, but I understand that you are resentful of me."
"I am not—"
"—darling, you are."
You looked down at the hot chocolate he had given you moments prior, the rich liquid cooling with each passing second, even when you did not touch it. You finally noticed the tiny marshmallows melting to the side of the cup. You had been so focused on him that you had yet to even truly assess what it was he had given you.
"Would you give me a chance?" Fiyero asked, drawing your attention back to him. "Would you give me a chance to show you that I do want to know you better?"
A small smile played at your lips. "You do not need a chance from me."
Fiyero's brows furrowed.
"You already have it."
His cheeks softly flushed as he watched you, eyes searching yours for a sign that you were lying—that you were merely pulling his legs. When he deemed you honest, he began to smile.
"Then let me spend time with you. Outside of class, of course."
You couldn't tell him no.
You refused to go off campus, spouting something about how if you were to go anywhere with him, it must be close by (you didn't want to go anywhere you didn't know, which... well, kudos to you, I suppose).
So here you were, walking down a winding path to the forest near the school. You watched your step, avoiding overgrown roots and the briars that threatened to jab your skin.
"Here we are," Fiyero said, grabbing hold of your arm and pulling you to his side.
In front of you lay a small and simple pond—one that you could have sworn you had seen before. It was as if you had dreamed of this sight—dreamed of this. Of him.
Dragonflies flew over the pond, cattails swaying with the gentle breeze. The water wasn't see-through—it was a bit murky, the top of it a lighter color than the brown underneath. You could hear peepers—frogs—calling out for anyone who would listen.
Peep, peep.
He led you over to a blanket that had already been laid out. Your eyes widened in realization, and a small smile grew steadily on your lips.
“Did you come here earlier to scope out the place?”
He scoffed softly before saying, “More or less.”
He let you sit down first before he sat beside you, looking out at the pond. The silence that followed wasn’t unbearable—the soft sounds from the wildlife had been enough to make you feel as if you didn’t need to talk. It gave you a chance to listen—once your eyes flickered in Fiyero’s direction, it gave you a chance to look at him. Actually look at him.
He was looking right at you.
“I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Y/n,” he said, fingers picking at the grass beside the blanket. "Speak to you honestly." He drew a blade of it and looked down at it, looking anywhere but you—his head turning away from his once obvious stare. His fingers twisted the blade into a knot before he tossed it into the pond, sighing softly.
Ripples in the water made a frog or two jump, croaking in annoyance.
“I can tell,” you muttered, eyes locked on his person. He looked smaller, somehow—as if the weight of the world was crushing him.
“Are you like the others? Do you think I am actually a bad person?”
Your brows furrowed. “What? Where is this coming from?”
Fiyero glanced back at you, weakly smiling. “You do not have to lie.”
“No,” you said. “I have never thought you were a bad person.”
He stared at you for a beat before he looked away. “Good. I was worried there for a second.”
“I can tell... but truly, Fiyero. What would it matter if I did think that?” you asked. “You do not owe me anything. You do not need to make me think you’re a good person.”
“No,” he said. “No, but I’ve made enough people think so. It would have been… rather disappointing hearing that you believed that way, too.”
Fiyero Tigelaar, a prince, a handsome man, a man who never had to ask twice when he wanted something—there was far more to him than many people thought. It seemed as if there was more to him than you once believed, too.
You grew up living in a world where looks weren’t everything, but they most definitely did help. Looking pretty, looking conventionally attractive—it all had its perks. But what of those who were beautiful? What of those like Fiyero, who had his beauty but were lacking in other ways?
Had you ever taken a moment to think of what it may have been like for someone beautiful, through and through?
You didn’t know what he was lacking. Not really. But for now, it seemed like he was lacking a friend. Not an acquaintance or a lackey that followed him around, but a friend. If romance followed suit, then so be it, but a friend was needed first.
You reached out and took hold of his hand. “Fiyero?”
He pulled his hand away, frowning deeply. He shook his head, getting to his feet.
“This was a mistake,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t be here. You need to get back.”
“What? Fiyero, we haven’t even been out here for that long—“
“—Y/n,” he interrupted, exasperated. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, kicking at a tuft of grass and dirt he had managed to pull up earlier. He didn’t look at you.
Instead of leaving as he had told you, you stayed put. You simply stared at him, frowning. You knew him well enough, you supposed. Was he realizing that? Or was the weight of the world finally showing you exactly how he felt?
The anxiety he felt was palpable. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife.
He glanced over at you, frowning as you didn't leave.
You reached forward, pulling a hand from his pocket and taking hold of it once more. He did not pull away, allowing you to lace your fingers with his.
Lips pressed to the skin of his knuckles, hand squeezing hand.
"This was not a mistake," you said. "I am here, Fiyero."
At that, his frustrated expression softened. You were right. You were here. So was he.
There was no hate behind your words. No malice.
Before this moment, perhaps the only thing that backed your words stemmed from the jealousy of Galinda (the one whom he believed to be friends with, but truly had not felt like this toward anyone else, other than you).
"Thank you," Fiyero softly said.
"Do not thank me. Before I am anything else, I am your friend."
A small smile quirked on his lips. "You are my friend? My dear friend?"
"Yes. I have decided that we are dear friends."
Fiyero squeezed your hand once, twice, thumb gently brushing over the back of it. His eyes flickered toward the pond before you both.
"I do believe you have my heart," he softly said, voice barely above a whisper. For a moment, you were convinced that you had heard wrong. His flushed cheeks, however, showed that you had not.
You reached forward, placing a hand on his flustered skin, making him look at you.
"And you have mine," you softly said. "Truly."
His eyes searched yours, and for what it was worth, he knew that you had bewitched him, perhaps until the end of time. He would want for nothing more than to have you in his arms, to hold, to touch.
He had found beauty in Oz in many different ways. Beautiful people, beautiful paintings, fashion, songs, dancing. He only wished that he had known just how stunning the rest of Oz would be.
And now? He had you.
The beauty of Oz stemmed from pretty faces and pretty bodies. The beauty of Oz stemmed from pretty souls, and actions, and words that came from delicate mouths, and thoughts that came from harrowing minds, and, and, and.
Beauty, as it seemed, came from so much more than just a beautiful face.
Fiyero was beautiful.
Many faces around were beautiful with not-so-beautiful souls, but truly? Who were you to say much more than that? The terrible attitudes that you often deemed "ugly" came from those who were insecure, hurting, and more often than not, people who did not know any better.
There was beauty in the cracks, the insecure, the jealous.
All of Oz was not perfect. Many things were deplorable, and you could deal with that when the time came to fruition. But you knew, with every fiber inside of you, every cell, every piece of stardust that made you and all of the others, beauty could be found.
And while it may seem quite silly, you had never felt more beautiful than the moment that Fiyero said it himself, words tying you closer to his fate than ever before—not to mention the fact that he, in all his beautiful glory, had said everything you were was beautiful.
It had started with one of the many outings the two of you took as friends, delving into the inconsistencies of Oz, the things that made the two of you nervous for what was to come.
And then, he got a bit too close, lips looking dashingly tempting, when he said the words that echoed in your mind:
"You are so beautiful. Every bit of you. Your mind, your body, your soul. If you will have me, I wish to tell of your beauty every day, every hour, every minute. Tell me no, and I will go. Tell me yes, and you will never live another moment with the fear that you are otherwise."
Of course, you took him up on his offer. The man you once felt jealousy toward, only in the context that he was with another. Oz be blessed when you knew that he had wanted you from the moment he met you.
You were not just an acquaintance, a lackey, a confidant. You were his, through and through, mind, body, and soul. And he, ever his beautiful self, was yours. No hesitation, no meaning for confusion.
He loved, loved, loved you. Friend and friend, hand in hand, a match made from not just belief but intent and gumption. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, yes, but undoubtedly in the heart of those who truly mattered.
You both knew, now. What beauty was. How beauty felt.
In a world of uncertainty, how wonderful it was to know. Each and every bit of what made anyone beautiful, tied in between the very cosmic energy that made both you and Prince Fiyero Tigelaar.