Chapter Text
Glinda arrived seven minutes early. Not because she was nervous. Just prepared.
Third row, center seat. Close enough to make eye contact with the professor but far enough not to sweat under the lights. Her notebook was already open, page dated, pink pen uncapped. She smoothed down her skirt, crossed her legs, and waited.
She liked first days. She liked structure, fresh starts, assigned seats, and professors who had their syllabi laminated. This was a senior-level media elective, and she had plans for it. Plans that were polished, high-impact, emotionally resonant, probably involving soft piano music over B-roll.
She would be paired with someone competent. Maybe Carlynne or Aste. Someone with good instincts for lighting.
A scrape of chair legs behind her made her flinch.
She didn’t look, but she didn’t have to.
Elphaba Thropp had entered the room like she was allergic to the concept of subtlety. Bag dropping to the floor, hoodie pulled halfway over her face, headphones still in as she took a seat in the very back. Far corner. Already opening her laptop like she was daring someone to ask her a question.
Glinda did not turn around. She simply took a long, controlled breath and tightened her ponytail.
Professor Barkan stepped to the front, adjusting his glasses. “This course is built around collaboration and immersive storytelling. Your final project will involve a week-long travel assignment, paired interviews, field work, and media creation. You’ll be choosing the subject matter based on your partner’s shared interests.”
Glinda smiled. Good. She could steer it. Something glossy but sincere.
“You’ll be assigned partners by random draw. Lists are being uploaded now.”
Glinda clicked open her student portal, expecting something palatable. Safe.
Her eyes scanned the screen. Froze.
Partner: Elphaba Thropp
She stared at the name. Just stared.
Behind her, a voice said flatly, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Glinda turned.
Elphaba was already looking at her. Not glaring, but not smiling either. Just that flat, unimpressed stare like Glinda had ruined her life by existing. Her eyes flicked over Glinda’s cardigan, her pink pen, her glitter phone case, and then returned to her screen like it wasn’t even worth saying out loud.
Glinda opened her mouth. Closed it.
“I suppose this is happening,” she said finally.
Elphaba didn’t respond. Just reached into her bag and pulled out a thermos. She unscrewed the cap. Took a sip. Looked like she regretted being born.
Glinda turned back around.
The professor kept talking. Something about submission formats, travel reimbursements, shared drive folders. Glinda didn’t hear any of it.
All she could feel was the pressure of the stare behind her. Sharp. Icy. Relentless. She tapped her pen once against the page, then underlined the date with unnecessary force.
So this was how her senior project was going to go.
Glinda crossed her legs the other way, forced a small smile at no one, and whispered to herself, “Excellent.”
That afternoon, they met in the small café near the quad in Center City, halfway between Glinda’s dorm and the library. Elphaba showed up ten minutes late with no apology and a black coffee that smelled burnt. Glinda had already picked a booth and claimed the side with the outlet.
Their shared document was open on her tablet. She’d titled it Project Draft: Route + Locations + Media Plan. Elphaba renamed it Map of You the moment she got the invite.
“Map of me would be more accurate,” Glinda said, already annoyed. “I did all the prep.”
Elphaba sipped her coffee. “Exactly. Seems like the you part is covered.”
They were off to a fantastic start.
Glinda pulled up a map of Oz, then a second doc with a bulleted breakdown. “Okay. So. These are potential stop options by region, sorted by theme, public access, and whether there’s any hope of getting an interview.”
Elphaba raised a brow. “Is that column color-coded?”
“It’s called efficiency,” Glinda said, highlighting a cell with one delicate tap.
She scrolled down. “I figure we’d start north and wind our way southwest. Less driving that way.”
Elphaba leaned forward, scanning the list. Her gaze paused at a familiar name.
Stop One: Memorial Garden, The Scalps (South Glikkus)
“Used to be a hidden burial ground,” Glinda explained. “Unmarked graves. Eventually turned into a public memorial for queer Ozian lives lost to violence and illness.”
She paused. “It’s quiet. Small. But beautiful.”
Elphaba didn’t say anything, but her jaw tightened.
Stop Two: The Tin & Thistle, Tenniken (Central Gillikin)
“A collapsed queer bar,” Glinda said. “Used to be the only safe space in the region. Locals still tag it with graffiti, messages, memorials, whatever.”
“So we’re filming a ruin?”
“We’re documenting history,” she corrected.
Elphaba shrugged. “Same thing.”
Stop Three: The Festival Archives (Vinkus)
Glinda tapped this one twice. “Run by an elderly lesbian couple. It’s part museum, part community archive. I called and asked, they said they’d love to be interviewed.”
Elphaba looked vaguely surprised. “You already called them?”
“I like being prepared.”
“Noted.”
Stop Four: The River March Route, outside Bubbling Spring (Quadling Country)
“First public queer protest in Oz,” Glinda said. “Some of the paint is still on the roads. There’s a small statue now, but it’s been defaced and scrubbed over a dozen times.”
Elphaba’s expression changed. Just slightly. She nodded once.
Stop Five: Windmere Quilt House at Qhoyre (Southeast Quadling)
Glinda hesitated. “This one’s a little out of the way, but worth it. It’s a community-run archive for the Ozian queer memorial quilt. Families and friends sewed panels for queer loved ones they lost. It’s not flashy, but it’s…”
“Real,” Elphaba finished. “Yeah. Keep it.”
They stared at the list together. Five stops. One week. Two very incompatible people.
“I booked us mostly through old travel partner inns,” Glinda said. “They’re all locally owned. Most only have one bed, but it was cheaper.”
Elphaba looked at her. “You planned for one bed.”
Glinda blinked. “I planned for efficiency. You’ll survive.”
“Will you?”
Glinda smiled sweetly. “I’ve shared worse. Once at a youth conference I had to split a mattress with Pfannee. You don’t scare me.”
Elphaba leaned back. “I think that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Oh, not even close.”
The banter settled into silence. Not easy, not comfortable, just quiet. Glinda typed a few last notes on her phone. Elphaba double-checked the next stop on the map.
“You know,” Elphaba said eventually, “I didn’t expect this from you.”
Glinda didn’t look up. “What?”
“The queer history thing. It’s not what I pictured you caring about.”
That got her attention. “Why not?”
Elphaba shrugged. “You just seem like someone who… I don’t know. Has always fit in.”
Glinda’s brow lifted. “You mean I’m not miserable enough?”
“I mean,” Elphaba said, a little too blunt, “you look like you dated varsity boys and cried about it in matching silk pajamas.”
Glinda stared at her. Then: “That’s very specific.”
“I’ve seen the type.”
“Wow. Thank you for your completely inaccurate read of me.”
“I said seem.” Elphaba crossed her arms. “It’s not an insult.”
“No, of course not,” Glinda said lightly. “Just a little classist. And judgmental. And reductive.”
Elphaba winced. “Alright, alright.”
Then Glinda said, softly but clearly, “People assume a lot about girls like me. Doesn’t make them right.”
“Okay,” Elphaba muttered. “I deserved that.”
“You did.”
They stared at each other across the table, both irritated and flustered and suddenly very aware that they were going to be alone together. A lot.
Glinda tapped her screen.
“Five stops. Ten nights. One blog.”
Elphaba reached for her coffee. “What could possibly go wrong.”