Chapter Text
"OOOOOOOH! Look! The theatre department posted the casting notice!" Galinda shrieked, practically vibrating with excitement looking at the bulletin board outside the student union. Her blonde curls bounced as she clapped her hands together.
Fiyero sees the title. "Little Shop Of Horrors."
"YES! I LOVE that show," he says, already doing the finger-snapping walk from the title song. Boq, standing next to him, taps his foot unconsciously in time.
Galinda spins toward Elphaba, who’s been leaning against a lamppost with her arms crossed, pretending not to care. "Elphie," Galinda singsongs, "you HAVE to audition with us. You have the best singing voice out of all of us—don’t even try to deny it."
Elphaba rolled her eyes so hard her. "Absolutely not," she said, tightening her grip on the strap of her satchel. "The last thing anyone wants is a green girl being put as a laughing stock on stage." She gestured at her skin with a grimace.
Galinda pouted, twisting a curl around her finger. "But Elphie—"
"Don’t ‘Elphie’ me," Elphaba snapped, though there was no real heat in it. She pushed off the lamppost and started walking backward, away from their pleading faces. "You three go be stars. I’ll be in the back row, heckling you quietly."
Fiyero immediately pulls the most guilt-tripping expression in his repertoire—eyes wide and pleading, lips slightly downturned like a kicked puppy. "Come on, Elphie," he wheedles, "We'd all be together. Think of it like... studying, but with jazz hands."
Boq who is probably the most reasonable of them all, sighed, "Just try to audition with us at least. If you don't get in, you don't get in. No pressure." He adjusted his glasses, squinting slightly as the afternoon sun hit them at an angle. "And if you do get in... well, it's not like anyone's forcing you to say yes after that."
Elphaba hesitated, glancing at Fiyero, who was still giving her that ridiculous kicked-puppy look. Galinda, sensing weakness, clasped her hands together under her chin like a prayer. "Pleeeeease? Just this once!"
After deliberating for a few minutes, Elphaba sighs, "Fine. But I’m not promising anything beyond showing up. And if I vomit from stage fright, I’m blaming all of you collectively."
Galinda squeals loud enough that a nearby flock of crows—actual, literal crows, not the metaphorical kind—scatter from the trees in protest. "YES! This is going to be divine," she declares, already pulling out her pocket mirror to check her lip gloss. "I want the leading lady! Audrey! I love her song!"
Fiyero says, "I honestly don't care about a role. I actually want something even better!"
"What could possibly be better than a lead role?" Boq asked.
"The background!?" Galinda gasped, clutching her pearls dramatically. "Fiyero Tigelaar, you cannot be serious!"
Fiyero grinned, stretching his arms behind his head. "Dead serious. Think about it—no pressure, no spotlight, just vibes. I can be ‘Random Dancing Man #3’ and still get the same applause. Plus," he added, winking at Elphaba, "more time to sneak snacks backstage."
Boq snorted, adjusting his glasses again. "You just don’t want to memorize lines."
"Guilty as charged," Fiyero admitted without shame.
Elphaba, who had been quietly observing the exchange with mild amusement, finally uncrossed her arms. "So let me get this straight," she said, her voice dry as desert sand. "You’re dragging me to an audition for a show you don’t even want a real part in?"
Fiyero draped an arm over her shoulders. "Fae, my love," he said with exaggerated solemnity, "this isn’t about wanting a part. It’s about experiencing the chaos. The auditions alone will be a train wreck worth witnessing."
The green girl rolls her eyes. "I'd rather chew on glass shards than agree to this," she mutters under her breath.
The audition day arrived and the hallway to the rehearsal room is crowded. Elphaba hovered near the back, arms crossed, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against her elbows as if her hands had already decided they wanted nothing to do with this. Around her, students belted scales, stretched like contortionists, or nervously flipped through sheet music.
"I am so ready for this!" Galinda squeals. "Are you guys ready? Because I am so ready." She adjusts her already-perfect posture, lifting her chin like she’s about to address royalty instead of a dingy university audition panel. Boq is nervously shifting through his music and Fiyero is leaning against the wall bored.
The audition room door creaked open, and Avaric sauntered out like he owned the building—which, given his family’s donations to Shiz, he practically did. His smirk was practically audible. "Nailed it," he announced to no one in particular, running a hand through his already-perfect hair. "They loved me. Obviously."
Pfannee, perched on the edge of a bench nearby, didn’t even glance up. He was too busy inhaling through his nose like he’d been instructed to do in his "Calm Your Nerves Before Performance" seminar. His exhales were shaky, though, and his fingers clutched the sheet music so tightly the edges crumpled.
Shenshen, meanwhile, was stretching her legs in a split against the wall, her face serene. "Oh, I’m definitely getting Audrey," she said airily, as if commenting on the weather.
Galinda’s head whipped around so fast her curls bounced. "*Excuse* me?"
Shenshen rolled her shoulders back, unfazed. "You heard me. I’ve been practicing Audrey’s numbers since last semester. The director’s cousin is my aunt’s hairdresser—she told me they’re looking for someone with ‘delicate vulnerability.’" She gestured to herself with a flourish, as if her lavender dress and pearl-studded hairpins were proof of some inherent fragility.
Galinda’s lip twitched. "Delicate vulnerability,” she repeated, voice dripping with enough syrup to drown a small village. "Darling, unless they’re casting a lampshade, I’m not sure you’ve got the range."
Avaric barked a laugh, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Oh, this’ll be good. Pfannee, stop hyperventilating and watch the show."
Pfannee, mid-inhale, shot him a glare that could melt steel. "I’m centering myself," he hissed through gritted teeth, then immediately winced as his sheet music slipped from his grip, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird. Boq, ever the peacekeeper, bent to pick it up, smoothing the crumpled edges with a sympathetic wince.
Elphaba watched the chaos unfold with the detached amusement of someone who’d already accepted her fate as collateral damage. "You realize," she muttered to Fiyero, "this is going to end with at least one shattered friendship and possibly a restraining order."
Fiyero grinned, twirling a loose thread from his sleeve. "Worth it!"
Boq sighs, "Honestly, I don't care if I get any part, as long as it's not lead."
The door creaked open again, and the assistant director calls, "Galinda Upland?"
Galinda squeaked, her hands fluttering to her chest as if she'd been summoned by royalty. "That's me!” she stage-whispered, as though the entire hallway hadn’t already turned to stare. She straightened her already-pristine dress, tossed her curls, and marched toward the door with the gravitas of a general heading into battle. At the threshold, she paused dramatically, shooting a glance back at Shenshen. "Try not to faint from envy while I'm gone, darling." The door clicked shut behind her before Shenshen could retort.
The remaining group exchanged glances—Boq with mild panic, Fiyero with gleeful anticipation, and Elphaba with the resigned expression of someone watching a carriage hurtle toward a cliff. Pfannee had resumed his aggressive breathing exercises, now with added muttering under his breath. Avaric, ever the instigator, smirked and said, "Ten-to-one odds she trips on her own enthusiasm before hitting the high note."
“Oh you're on," Fiyero said immediately, digging in his pocket for a stray coin.
Boq groaned, rubbing his temples. "You two are impossible."
Galinda swept into the audition room like a tornado in a glitter factory, slapping her headshot and resume onto the panel table with such force that the director's coffee cup rattled. The glossy 8x10 featured her mid-toss of golden curls, teeth gleaming under studio lights that had probably cost more than the entire theater department's annual budget. The resume listed her "extensive training" (three months of childhood tap lessons) and "special skills" ("holding a note while crying artistically").
The director blinked at the documents. "Miss Upland, this is just—"
"Galinda," she corrected with a dazzling smile, already striking her opening pose. "With a Ga.” The accompanist, a harried-looking sophomore with ink-stained fingers, sighed and poised his hands over the keys.
"Hello! I am Galinda Upland, I am auditioning for the leading lady Audrey! And I will be singing 'Somewhere that's green!'"
The director looks a little bit overwhelmed by the sheer force of Galinda's personality radiating at him like a spotlight, but he gestures toward the accompanist with a bemused shrug. The pianist's fingers hover over the keys, already resigned to the inevitability of Galinda's performance.
Galinda inhaled dramatically, clutching her hands to her chest as if cradling a fragile dream. The accompanist's fingers touched the keys—and then she sang.
Not Audrey's wistful longing for suburban domesticity. Oh no. Galinda belted the opening lines like she was announcing the Second Coming of Ozma herself, each note ricocheting off the rehearsal room's peeling wallpaper. Her hands fluttered in grand, unnecessary gestures—clutching imaginary pearls at "a matchbox of our own," miming vacuuming during "a fence of real chain link"—until the accompanist missed a chord, staring at her like she'd spontaneously combusted.
After making the most unnecessary opt up on the final note and holding it for at least three seconds longer than written, Galinda finally concluded with a theatrical flourish, one hand pressed dramatically to her heart. The director’s coffee had gone cold. The accompanist looked like he needed therapy. Silence stretched for a beat too long before the director cleared his throat. “Thank you, Miss Upland. That was…certainly a choice.”
Galinda beamed as if she’d been handed a bouquet. “I know,” she sighed dreamily, flipping her hair over one shoulder and curtsied before skipping out of the room, leaving the director blinking at the space where she’d stood. The door swung shut behind her with a theatrical click.
"Nailed it! Absolutely nailed it!" Galinda announced to the hallway at large, twirling on one foot before landing in a pose that would've looked ridiculous on anyone else. The students waiting outside the audition room stared—some with awe, most with pure terror.
Avaric, ever the opportunist, nudged Fiyero. "Pay up. She didn't trip."
Fiyero tossed him the coin with a grin. "Worth every penny."
Elphaba, who had been leaning against the wall like a shadow, finally spoke. "If she gets the part, we’ll never hear the end of it."
The assistant director poked their head out again, squinting at the clipboard. "Boq Woodsman?"
Boq jerked like he'd been electrocuted, sending half his sheet music fluttering to the floor in a chaotic snowstorm of treble clefs. "That's—uh—me," he stammered, scrambling to gather the pages. Fiyero muffled a laugh into his sleeve as Boq tripped over his own feet twice before finally making it to the door, where he promptly dropped everything again trying to balance the papers while turning the doorknob. Elphaba pinched the bridge of her nose. "This," she muttered, "is why I don't do group activities."
Inside the audition room, Boq's hands shook so violently the sheet music rustled like autumn leaves. The accompanist—now visibly exhausted—raised an eyebrow at the crumpled pages Boq thrust at him before slowly going on stage with another copy of his own.
"Hi, I am Boq. Woodsman." Boq's voice cracked halfway through his own name, his fingers tightening around the sheet music until the edges crumpled like dead leaves. He shuffled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, and when he finally reached the center of the audition space, the silence stretched so taut it could’ve snapped. The accompanist—still recovering from Galinda’s hurricane performance—raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Boq cleared his throat. "I’ll be singing, uh—" He flipped through his music, pages slipping from his grip like they were greased. One fluttered to the floor. He bent to grab it, accidentally elbowing another sheet loose. The accompanist sighed, rubbing his temples as Boq scrambled after the rogue papers like a man chasing pigeons in a park.
The director, a wiry man with ink-stained cuffs, leaned forward on his elbows—not in impatience, but with the keen interest of someone watching a particularly absurd comedy routine. His lips twitched as Boq, in his desperation, attempted to reorganize the sheets by tapping them against his knee, only to send three more flying.
"Right! Okay!" Boq finally gasped, clutching the remnants of his dignity and his music. "I'll be singing 'Skid Row.'" He inhaled sharply—less like a performer centering himself, more like a man preparing to jump off a cliff—and launched into the opening bars with the gusto of someone who knew he was already doomed. His voice was surprisingly strong beneath the nerves, a warm baritone that wobbled only slightly when he forgot to breathe.
The director's pen hovered over his notepad, not writing, just watching as Boq belted out the lyrics with increasing desperation—like if he sang loud enough, he could drown out his own embarrassment. Halfway through, he misstepped, knocking over a music stand with his elbow. The crash startled the accompanist into missing a chord. Boq didn't even pause. He just kept going, eyes screwed shut, as if sheer determination could rewrite reality.
The director's shoulders shook—subtly at first, then unmistakably. By the time Boq hit the final, dramatic note—arms flung wide, one sheet of music still fluttering to the ground like a dying bird—the man was pressing his fist to his mouth to stifle laughter. Not cruel laughter, but the kind reserved for puppies tripping over their own paws. "Well," he managed, voice thick with suppressed amusement, "that was... energetic.” The accompanist snorted into his sleeve. "But I think this is giving something."
Boq blinked. "Oh?"
"We'll let you know when the casting list is up tomorrow. Thank you."
The door clicked shut behind Boq, and the hallway exhaled collectively—part relief, part anticipation. "He said it's 'giving something.' I hope it's not a fail," Boq muttered, rubbing his temples as he rejoined the group. Galinda patted his shoulder with the grace of a queen bestowing mercy upon a peasant. "Darling, you were *adorable*. Like a nervous puppy. People *love* that."
Fiyero grinned, slinging an arm around Boq's shoulders. "You knocked over a music stand and still kept going. That’s commitment."
Elphaba arched an eyebrow. "Or a public safety hazard."
The assistant director reappeared, squinting at the clipboard. "Fiyero Tigelaar?"
Fiyero sauntered forward with the effortless grace of someone who’d never doubted his place in the universe. "That’s me," he announced, as if the walls themselves should be honored by his presence. He didn’t even glance at the sheet music he’d supposedly prepared—just winked at Elphaba before disappearing into the audition room.
Inside, Fiyero didn't go on stage, instead he went to the director immediately. "Hi, i'm Fiyero Tigelaar, and I am actually not here to audition."
The director blinked, lowering his pen mid-scribble. "...Excuse me?"
Fiyero leaned against the edge of the table, flashing a grin that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count. "I don’t want a role," he clarified, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world. "I want to be in the show, sure, maybe one of those background dancers for the Skid Row number but... I want to do something even better!"
The director leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. "And what," he said slowly, "could possibly be better than any role in general?"
Fiyero only grinned widely.
After consulting with the director, Fiyero walks out of the audition room with a smirk plastered across his face—the kind that usually preceded chaos. Elphaba eyed him warily as he sauntered back toward their group, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "Well?" she demanded, fingers tightening around the strap of her satchel. "What fresh disaster did you unleash in there?"
"Nothing!"
Fiyero’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate, like a cat who’d not only found the cream but knocked over the entire dairy farm. "Let’s just say," he drawled, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve, "I’ve secured a vital position. One that guarantees maximum stage time with minimal memorization."
"There's literally no part for that!" Galinda complains, flipping her curls over her shoulder with theatrical exasperation. "Every SINGLE role has lines!"
Just as Fiyero is about to answer, the assistant director—now visibly exhausted—pokes their head out again. "Elphaba Thropp?"
Elphaba froze, her fingers gripping her satchel strap like a lifeline.
"Oh Shiz..."
"Break legs!" Galinda whisper-yelled after her, fingers crossed in an exaggerated gesture of luck.
"About to do that, thanks," Elphaba muttered under her breath as she crossed the threshold into the audition room.
The director and assistant director were having a conversation when they saw her.
“Oh it’s the artichoke,” the asisstant director whispers stunned. The director is also stunned.
Elphaba stood rooted to the spot, her green fingers twitching at her sides. The room smelled like dust and desperation, with a faint undertone of the director’s coffee going stale. The accompanist—now slumped over the piano like a marionette with its strings cut—blinked at her, waiting.
“For starters, no I was not seasick, no I didn’t eat grass as a child and yes, i’ve always been green. And before you ask—no, I don’t want to be here either. Apparently I was dragged here under duress by a blonde cyclone and her accomplices.” Elphaba’s voice was dryer than the Deadly Desert, her fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against her thigh.
Before the director says a word, Elphaba interrupts, “Look, let me cut to the chase—I don’t want a part. Not a big one, anyway. Stick me in the back row of some chorus number, put me behind the scenes pushing sets around, I don’t care.” She gestured vaguely at her green hands. “Frankly, I’d be doing you a favor—imagine me center stage belting about love or whatever while looking like a moldy avocado. No one wants that. I do have to admit, I can sing though—so, yeah. That’s it.”
The director and assistant director look at each other slowly, then back at Elphaba.
“So… let me get this straight,” the director said, tapping his pen against his chin. “You don’t want a role, but you can sing?”
Elphaba crossed her arms. “Yeah. But I am not interested in being on stage.”
The director and assistant director exchanged a glance that lasted just a fraction too long—the kind of silent conversation that could've rewritten an entire script in the space of a breath. The director tapped his pen once, twice against his clipboard before finally shrugging. "Alright, you're good to go," he said, waving a hand dismissively.
Elphaba blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it," the assistant director echoed, already scribbling something in her notes without looking up. "Unless you'd like to—"
"Nope. Perfect. Thanks." Elphaba pivoted on her heel and bolted for the door before either of them could change their minds. The hinges creaked as she shoved it open, only to nearly collide with Fiyero, who'd been lurking just outside like an overeager stagehand.
"Done already?" he asked, eyebrows hiking toward his hairline. "Did you even sing?"
Elphaba jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "They took one look at me and decided I was better suited for offstage.”
Fiyero’s grin faltered for half a second before snapping back into place with unnerving precision. "Oh, come on," he said, draping an arm over her shoulders as she stalked down the hallway. "You didn’t even try—"
"I tried not to be there," Elphaba hissed, shrugging him off. "Mission accomplished." Behind them, Galinda gasped loud enough to startle a cluster of students waiting their turn.
"Elphie! You didn’t sing?"
"I sang the song of my people," Elphaba deadpanned. "It’s called ‘Leave Me Alone.’"
Boq, ever the diplomat, adjusted his glasses with a sigh. "At least you showed up. That’s... something."
Galinda growls, “Elphaba Thropp, you are going to march right back in there and SING.”
Elphaba scoffed. “No, I’m going to march away from here and live.”
Galinda threw her hands up, the sleeves of her frilly blouse fluttering like surrender flags. "Unbelievable! You have the voice of an angel wrapped in velvet, and you’re wasting it on—on spite!" She spun toward Fiyero, her curls bouncing with righteous indignation. "Do something!"
Fiyero held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I already did my part. Got her here, didn’t I?"
Galinda face palms. “Fine, if you’re going to throw away your talent, that’s your choice,” she huffs.