Innocence Maintained

Perhaps this carefree optimism of theirs really was rather foolish; but they had not come to Wondertropolis to die. Both of them were surrounded by death on a daily basis – he throwing blood-soaked bandages to the operating table, where another young boy lay dead on a cold metal surface under those harsh, cruel lights, and she saw it muted through the lens of her camera; boys caked in blood, dirt, honor, wretchedness, glory – but neither of them applied it to themselves. They were here for a reason, a purpose, totally separate from those who could not be saved. Cheshire and March were survivors. They were canny and wily and strong. Those who had given up, those who were weak with defeat, they were the ones that seemed to draw fire, as if they suddenly exuded some kind of magnetic force.

Cheshire Cat could never truly be alone as long as March Hare was alive. She was quite adamant that she would always be there for him, even if it was just to hold his hand and kiss his cheek and crack ridiculously idiotic jokes that only made him cringe. After all, he had never been absent when she had needed him, especially through her somewhat turbulent relationships. He had been there to brush away her tears after two whole years of separation (she had moved to Wondertropolis with a man who’d convinced her to marry him – though it had never gotten past the engagement) and taken her out dancing just to wipe away the sorrow, the disappointment from her face. She was, after all, a self-confessed commitment-phobe, and good old Cheshire was the only boy she’d been able to hang onto for more than a year, or so.

She leaned both of her elbows on the sticky surface of the table, and propped her head neatly into her cupped hands. Her face was intense in her apparent delight, her eyes bright in her eagerness, and her voice was almost raw when she spoke again. “He took me for a ride in his P-47! Oh, to be a pilot, Cheshire…” And then she was nothing but wistful, staring dreamily into nothing, her usually sharp eyes strangely misty; she had always had dreams that were impractical ones for little girls to have. She sighed heavily, and surveyed him from under neatly arched brows. “Why you chose to be around terrible, broken bodies all day, I will never know.” Her voice was light, blithe, and she shook her head tenderly in her amusement. Her lips twitched in an almost irritated way then, “Though I suppose it has something to do with the flocks of pretty girls who like to fawn all over you.” And it was said with a tinge of sarcasm that revealed the territorial nature of her love for Cheshire.

And then he was grabbing her hand in his, and tugging her the way they had just come, and her breath escaped her in a sharp, sudden puff, her eyes wide and mouth pouted with the shock of it all. But it did not take long for her to compose herself, and she was soon grinning, laughing softly, her breath warm and fleeting against the slope of his cheek. “It's about time you took me dancing again!” And she felt so safe in his arms, skittering and twirling in and out of piles of rubble, between the ruined skeletons of homes and bakeries and shops and cafes. And for a moment, they were pure, chaste, untouched by the chaos, the utter devastation that surrounded them. They were happy; kids under their Borderland sunsets once more, bent over with giggles, spinning recklessly, clinging desperately to one another like they had always done.