This particular fic is based on the 1971 film because the Shakespeare theme doesn't apply to the new one. So yes, this Wonka is very un-Depp-like on purpose; this Wonka is written in regard to Wilder's version.

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

"Charlie! Finally!" Willy Wonka exclaimed gleefully as Charlie let himself in through the front gate of the factory. Wonka had been on his way to a quick conference with the Oompa-Loompas, but he found Charlie much more interesting. "I have something wonderful to show you!"

But Charlie did not appear to be listening. At the age of eighteen and a few weeks, he had arrived at the point in his life where he had become Mature and Introspective (although not yet Grown Up), and his nose was studiously buried in a book of Shakespeare's sonnets.

Wonka bounded up to Charlie, and when he saw the book the boy gripped steadfastly in his hands, his face contorted into a slight scowl. "Oh, chocolate is much more important than books, Charlie," he said, jokingly disdainful.

Charlie glanced up for the first time since passing through the gate. "What? Did you say something, Willy?" he asked blankly.

Bright blue eyes peered curiously into grayish blue ones. "Gosh, Charlie," Wonka said, scratching his unruly, reddish hair absently, "Have the agony and futility of high school really become more important than the factory?"

With that insult, Charlie finally became attentive, shoving a slip of paper between two leaves to serve as a bookmark. He shut the book firmly. "Of course not," he responded irritably, readjusting his book bag and heading up the red carpet that stretched over the gray cobblestones. As Wonka fell into step beside him, Charlie said, "I've got to write an essay on a Shakespearean sonnet of my choosing. I was hoping to pick one quickly and get it over with."

Wonka twirled his cane in his right hand as he strolled. "Ahh, Shakespeare. He's that 'To be or not to be'guy, right?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Oh, cute. Nice try. You've quoted Shakespeare to me before."

"Have I?"

"Yes," Charlie said. "At the end of the first day we met, in your office. I put the Gobstopper on your desk and you said, 'So shines a good deed in a weary world.' That's from The Merchant of Venice."

Wonka's lips quirked upwards. "So it is." He studied Charlie fondly. "I doubt somebody who knows Shakespeare that thoroughly would be so disgruntled about having to write an essay on one of his works." Charlie looked away, and Wonka said, "You don't need to think of cover-ups for your reading Shakespeare. Literature – good literature – is just as much a part of the imagination as candy-making."

With a faint smile gracing his lips, Charlie looked at Wonka thoughtfully, answering, "Thanks, Willy. Really." A pause, then: "What was it you were so excited to show me?"

A few hours later, Charlie and Wonka sat in Wonka's office. Charlie's school jacket had been tossed carelessly to the side, and Wonka had (more neatly) discarded his purple waistcoat and top hat. The basic blueprint for a chocolate-covered pretzel that wouldn't melt in the hands, Wonka's newest idea, had been sketched out, and as Wonka finished up a few last touches, Charlie's nose was once again stuck between the pages of his book of sonnets.

"Good gosh, Charlie," Wonka said with a playful whine, swiveling slightly in his chair to face the teenager, who sat on his direct right. "Sonnets again?"

"This is a good one," Charlie mumbled, not looking up.

Wonka smiled gently, closely watching Charlie's hard expression of concentration. "Read it to me."

Charlie's head shot up immediately; there was panic in his eyes.

Leaning back in his chair, Wonka folded his hands over his stomach. "If it's good, read it to me." As Charlie opened his mouth to protest, Wonka hurriedly added, "Please."

Charlie could not find it in himself to refuse the simple request. "All right." He cleared his throat hastily, avoiding Wonka's eyes as a faint blush crept along his cheekbones. "This is Sonnet 78.

"So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee, their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou does but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be:
But thou art all my art and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance."

After Charlie finished reading, he closed the book softly over his index finger to mark his page and stared down at it.

"That was wonderful, Charlie," Wonka said quietly. He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and allowing his hands to dangle in front, and his eyes never left the teenager.

Charlie jumped up suddenly, sending his book crashing to the floor. "I have to go," he muttered, avoiding Wonka's gaze. "Stuff to do." He turned for the door.

"Wait!" Wonka leapt up in turn, reaching out and grabbing Charlie's right arm firmly. He spun Charlie around and tugged him in until their bodies were touching.

"Willy – Mr. Wonka –"

"—Charlie, when did you get so tall?" Wonka softly interrupted, threading his arms around Charlie's slim waist. "When did you become old enough that wanting you didn't feel wrong?" Although Wonka's eyes were fixed on Charlie's lips, he made no other move.

Charlie remained silent for several long moments, and then he finally spoke more quietly than he ever had to Wonka. "I've loved you for so long that this feels like it shouldn't be happening." He rested both hands against Wonka's chest and began pushing him backwards.

"What are you doing?" Wonka asked with surprise, studying Charlie's downcast eyes, just as he bumped up against the wall.

"This is going to be our first kiss, Willy," Charlie said, pressing himself closer, "and I'm going to be rather reckless."

With a glint in his eye, Wonka responded, "I was hoping it was something like that." He wrapped a hand around the back of Charlie's neck, and after a pause, he whispered, "'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow'…"

Charlie sighed contentedly. "Macbeth," he murmured, just before his lips forcefully met Wonka's.