This is a convo between a fifteen-year-old Quatre and seven-year-old Dorothy.
"Do you think I'm real?" Quatre asked.
"Honestly, mister, I thought you were from the fairytales."
"Uh-huh. There's a lot of magic there, you know. I thought you're the boy version of Cinderella: you should be home before midnight so when the magic disappears," she lowered her voice, "no one will see. Maybe that's why you vanished with the help of Fairy Godmommy. And I'm Princess Charming, and I will have to find you after I failed on following you, but you didn't leave your shoe or anything so I can't look for you."
Quatre laughed. He laughed harder when she blushed.
"Are you not a Prince?"
"Well, I still thought about the Little Prince because he came from the stars, and I met you in a colony." She looked down, her face clouds. She then saw her move, made it, and flashed a triumphant smile at him. "Checkmate!"
"Yes," he clapped. "Little Miss Chess Queen du jour."
"Thank you," she breathed, turning pinker with pride. "But you are real, aren't you?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"It makes me kind of wonder about fairytales. I mean, if you're real, why can't they be considered real, too?"
He wrinkled his eyebrows at the innocent question as he watched ennui hitting her, making her build a small mountain of the chess pieces. "Maybe they're real, or some little thing in them is real and people just added to it, you know?"
"Like Cinderella's Fairy Godmommy is actually a great seamstress and fashion stylist!"
"And Sleeping Beauty is in a coma."
"And Jack the beanstalk guy is a real terrific gardener!"
"And the Big Bad Wolf is a leader of a demolition team."
"And the third piggy is a successful architect!" She shook her head. "Poor first two piggies."
"And you really are Dorothy Gale, and Oz is…" Quatre faltered, quite surprised at the reckless words that flew out his mouth. That wasn't exactly a good example…
"Oz is not a place where I am lost," Dorothy continued moonily. "It is my home and I'm safe there, that's why Papa talks good things about it. There are a few Wicked Witches there though. They keep on clinging to Papa like leeches because Mama is with Mama Mary and the angels now."
Quatre watched her spin one of the white bishops like a top. Her face was blank.
"I'm sorry to hear about your mother," he said apologetically. His heart began banging against the walls of his chest, and his eyes stung. He willed the images of his own childhood to go away, the times he wasted being a wet-behind-the-ears space rebel, the face of his father…
"Don't be," she winked, although her smile was a little sad around the edges. "I'm sure Mama is happy playing with God's cloud attendants."