A/N: Plotlines are bitches. Please pardon my French (I don't speak French), but they really are. I have read and re-read this little ficlet countless times, I really like it, I've thought and thought about adding another chapter, and ultimately deciding every time that it would just take away from the first one.

Until now. (Insert your choice of dramatic music.)

This is improvisation (what a surprise), just like the first chapter. Don't expect a plotline, or much of a conflict (other than "OZ DAMMIT WILL YOU KISS ME ALREADY"), but do expect a lot of description, and some funky switches regarding point of view. Also, my undying gratitude to those who have been reviewing – it looks like I don't appreciate it, considering I haven't updated this in an amount of time I'd rather not quantify, but I really, really do. Go buy yourselves a cookie and pretend I gave it to you as a thank-you. And while you're at it, pretend that this fic isn't filled with run-on sentences, if that kind of grammatical error bothers you. My last request: enjoy chapter two.

Oh and BY THE WAY, I came up with a solution to the POV switches ('cause the horizontal lines suggested in the reviews weren't working). Elphie's voice is in italics, and Galinda's voice is, well… bold.

Disclaimer: Do I even have to put this here? You know I don't own Wicked. If I did, do you really think I would've let Fiyero even exist as a romantic possibility? No. That train wreck belongs to Gregory Macguire and Steven Shultz.

The evening begins with a storm. She is out, no doubt gallivanting around town with her social acquaintances, while I am here, hiding from the rain that is so violently demanding to come in through the window. I pretend, for myself, that I'm shuddering from the chill that lingers both inside and outside (for it is cold; this is no wimpy spring shower) and not out of fear for the hard tapping of wind-thrown water against glass. I move away from the window, lanky legs shuffling across the floor, arms wrapped protectively against my bony chest. Idly, I pick up the leather-bound textbook that I had tossed carelessly onto my desk in my rush to get out of the rain earlier this afternoon, and I slowly slide my bare feet across the floor until I reach my bed. Sparsely covered though it is, it's comfortable, and I collapse onto the sheets, immediately drawing one knee up to my torso, pushing my glasses up the incline of my nose, and resting my right hand on my stomach. I flip open the book, inhaling the soothing scent of yellowing pages, and begin to read. Which, of course, is when she chooses to walk in.

Honestly, I had expected her to be asleep – she usually is at this time of night, seeing as she's got an early class on Monday mornings – though a small part of me (and maybe it wasn't quite so small any more, now that we've become friends) had been hoping all evening that she would be awake when I came back. She doesn't move her head when I open the door to our dorm, but I can see her watching me out of the corners of her eyes. I drop my bag on the floor, and step gingerly towards the bathroom, trying to keep the water that has accumulated in my hair, my dress, and my shoes from dribbling on the floor; a hazard to her bare feet. Just as I'm about to close the door to the bathroom, I glance back at her, and, to my heart's delight, her chocolate-hued eyes have returned to the page in front of her, and a small smile has crept onto her verdant lips. Though I do not know why she's smiling (for all I know, it could be out of amusement at my appearance), I almost squeal with glee as the door clicks shut behind me.

Whoever said beauty came in the form of dry hair and a freshly pressed dress was terribly mistaken, I think to myself as she delicately steps through the doorframe into the room and not-so-delicately dumps her purse on the floor. She's drenched from head to toe, and all the more breathtaking because of it. Her dress hangs loosely off her perfectly sloped shoulders, and, though it's not see-through (I thank and curse the Unnamed God for this), the ruffled skirt at the bottom is clinging damply to her shapely legs. I try not to inhale sharply at this realization, and instead continue to glace at her out of the corner of my eye. She's tiptoeing carefully towards the bathroom, and I guess that it's because she doesn't want to get the floor wet. At this thought, I smile, and look back down at my book before I start to blush. I've been crushing on my effervescent roommate for quite some time, and my objective is not to stop my feelings, only mask them.

I wiggle around in front of the mirror for a few minutes, releasing my joy at seeing that dazzling smile that few others have had the pleasure to witness, before shedding my dress and hanging it from the shower head and discarding my shoes under the sink where they won't harm her in their waterlogged state. I rub myself down with a fluffy, pink towel, and slip a cool, satin nightgown over my head. I pace over to the mirror above the sink where I prepare to observe the state of my hair. My blonde curls always get horribly frizzy in the wintertime, so I'm expecting to find a mane of static fluff, but, to my surprise, my hair has only become curlier. And more attractive, I think. I grin slyly to myself, hoping that she will notice. My mind does not allow me to begin to berate myself for my crush. We have agreed – my mind and I – that that is, in fact, what this fervid feeling I have for my green roommate is. Oh well. Stranger things have happened. With a quick toss of those sleek, golden curls, I skip out of the bathroom and onto my bed.

The door to the bathroom swings open and out she flounces, dry and dressed for bed. She springs onto her pink, down comforter, sinking lower and lower until she reaches the actual mattress. Her face is pressed into a poofy, pink pillow, and before she rolls over to face me, I smile to myself at her endearing actions. She's like a small child when she's excited; she grins and bounces and squirms with glee. Though I could never imagine myself practicing such ridiculous antics, I find the fact that she does absolutely adorable. Before I can catch myself and slide my façade back into place, she's turned onto her side and is staring intensely at me with her bright blue eyes. I try to blink, try to speak, but I can only stare at her, her alabaster skin, her delicate frame wrapped tightly in the thin material of her nightgown. Finally, I clear my throat, and ask, "Aren't you cold, in that skimpy little thing?"

After a few minutes of silent observation (though it can hardly be counted as observation, she's pretty much undressing me with her eyes), she asks if I'm cold, and frowns at my nightgown. Hardly, I think, not with you staring at me like that. I blush, and shake my head, for once unable to speak. She raises her eyebrows slightly at this, and turns back to whatever is so interesting in that damned book. I pout to myself, hoping that she would have said more. I try desperately to think of a way to get her to pay attention to me, but after ten minutes of heavy silence, my efforts still prove to be fruitless. I figure she's covered at least twenty pages in the span of six hundred seconds, and that soon she will extend one long, emerald arm towards her bedside lamp, and deftly turn the knob below the light bulb with her spindly fingers, extinguishing the light that emanates from her side of the room. However, she does not.

Feeling the silence weighing down on me like a thick blanket in stifling hot weather, I ask about her evening. "Did you enjoy your time out, Miss Galinda?" I inquire, still looking down at the same page that I was ten minutes ago.I wonder if she can hear my voice quavering. If she can, she doesn't show it as she absently replies that yes, her night was fine. I nod, not knowing what else to say or do, and resume staring at my book. After that short exchange, silence reigns once more, and I find that I'm unbearably frustrated. Why can't I talk to her? What's blocking my ability to speak? I feel as if my tongue is a brick, useless and obstructive behind my tightly clamped lips. She, on the other hand, seems loose and carefree, as always, albeit slightly preoccupied.

Did I enjoy my time this evening indeed. Could she come up with nothing else, really? I sigh and squirm, my frustrations manifesting physically as my arms flail. She seems to be unaware that I have moved at all, eyes glued to that stupid book, limbs stiff. She's such a tease. Yes, hoping that she would be awake when I got home was a long shot, but if she's going to smile when I walk in the door she should at least try to come up with some interesting subject matter. I, for one, know that she has no interest whatsoever in my social activities. I huff and furrow my brow. If she won't make the effort, I will.

A/N: What's the consensus? Leave the rest to the imagination, or continue? (P.S. Thanks again to those who reviewed! It really does matter to me!)