A/N: Okay, so I was planning to do some Elphie/Nessa sister bonding next, but it seems like Fiyeraba is what people want to read, and I can't write one-shots forever (as much as I'd like to). So here's my first Wicked multi-chap. It's still more like a collection of one-shots than a cohesive story, but I didn't really have any ideas for a plot, and capturing moments is easier. At any rate, enjoy!

"Maybe the driver saw green and thought it meant 'go'."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Fiyero cursed himself. It was a dumb joke, one she'd probably heard a hundred times in different forms, and yet it was one he couldn't resist. He found himself enjoying the outrage on her face, the triumph of knowing he'd pushed the right button; it faded, however, as soon as she stormed away. He was thinking of going after her when a soft, perfumed hand found his arm. He turned around.

Ah, yes. There she was. That girl. The one that the others followed unquestionably, the one who, by decree of the pecking order, automatically laid claim to him. Blue eyes, blonde hair, rosy cheeks, the whole package. Every school had one. After his meeting with the green girl, he'd forgotten about his goal of finding her, but this one might have set a speed record.

He watched her giggle at his every comment with the usual mild interest, admiring the way her pristine uniform slid over her delicate figure. Sure, she was pretty; she fit the routine. New school, new girl. It was unspoken, but they were reserved for each other. And yet, despite the almost hilarious blatancy of her advances, he didn't find her as interesting as he normally would.

oo00oo

Fiyero wondered absently if he was nocturnal. It would, at least, be a good excuse for sleeping in class. He, as a Vinkun prince, was somewhat of a foreigner, and the odds were good that the people at Shiz would fall for it.

If they could think that she was ugly, that she was wicked, then they would fall for anything.

Despite the fact that he had convinced himself and everyone else that he was stupid, Fiyero found himself astounded by the sheer lack of thought among the students at Shiz. How did they not notice the way her mind raced, the way she thought so quickly that it was almost visible in her eyes? For that matter, how did they not notice her eyes—the deep, rich brown of fertile soil, with flecks that glittered silver in the sun? Even if all they saw her for was her skin, how did they not see its rare beauty? They only saw different, and apparently, that was enough.

Why he was so frustrated with them, he wasn't sure. Life, thus far, had worked just fine for him as long as he ignored the fact that it was happening. He was the center of his own, contented little bubble, around which the rest of the world revolved. The occasional person pressed themselves close to its walls, or waved from the outside, earning themselves a passing glance. But all of that changed when a book, smacked against his bubble by bright green hands, made it pop.

"Are you planning to attend our next class, or does your 'skimming the surface' philosophy involve avoiding any and all knowledge as well as your problems?"

Fiyero looked up and realized that the classroom was empty, aside from him and the owner of the irritable voice beside him. She had her arms crossed over her chest, annoyance written in the lines of her face, and she looked slightly uncomfortable in whatever Galinda had forced her to wear today. At least she was no longer putting on the ditzy act as well, though Galinda's pink flower was still pinned resolutely in her hair.

He looked up at her and smirked carelessly. "Nah, I'll be there, just in case there's anything important I need to hear. Or maybe just to get you off my back. Besides, I thought you were convinced that I don't really believe in that philosophy?"

"I am," she said, swiping loose hair away from her face with an annoyed huff. The flower was hardly adequate to hold it in place, and yet (he would bet money that Galinda was insisting on it) it remained. "But you're just as stubborn in refusing to admit it."

Fiyero was half-listening, admiring the way her hair, now loose, flowed down her back like a waterfall of wet ink, and the subtle change in the emerald shade of her skin when the light hit her hand. "You go on ahead," he said lazily. "I'll catch up."

"You will do no such thing," she snapped. "I'm not letting you skip. Now come on."

Fiyero couldn't help but notice the way she instinctively reached for his wrist to pull him after her, then jerked her hand back, crossing her arms instead.

"Besides," she said, a smirk creeping onto her face, "your princess is waiting for her Prince Fifi. She won't shut up about you, you know."

Not even when she's with me.

But he enjoyed that, right? Galinda was his type of girl. She was the pretty one, the social butterfly, the type for a shallow, all-fun relationship. He had known plenty of girls like her. They were always the boldest in their approach, the girls who giggled at every remotely funny thing he said, the girls who draped themselves all over him like a new suit. He was fine with that. They were nice to look at and fun to be with. But maybe he'd gone for the shallow, social types because he had never known the power of one who prefers to be alone—and the depths of the mind beneath.

Maybe he'd only chased after the pretty girls because he hadn't yet met a beautiful one.

"Are we going or not?" she asked pointedly, interrupting his wonderings. "You're thinking, which I find slightly concerning."

Yeah, Fiyero thought. Me too.