"But Willy Wonka Did It" (9-3-05)
hurt/comfort
PG
Warnings: slash, angst, 16-year-old Charlie
Quote by Vladimir Nabokov

Every dinnertime, Charlie usually stared out the crooked window opposite him, thoughts focused on the Chocolate Room beyond. Of course he loved his family, but out there was Willy Wonka's domain and he was always anxious to return to it. Tonight he had caught a glimpse of the man himself, sitting on a bench by the waterfall. Charlie excused himself early in order to join him.

Even from a distance, Charlie could tell that Wonka was wearing what he had secretly come to call Wonka's "inventing face." Outwardly, Wonka might appear as a man fallen into a prolonged sulk. Charlie Bucket knew better, having studied this man--and only this man--for years before he'd even met him. He'd charted his moods and his habits, and therefore knew the precise moment at which he could intrude without interrupting a genius at work.

For after all, Willy Wonka was still the mastermind in their empire, Charlie reflected, with a mix of hero worship and self-deprecation. He himself was merely "the least rotten" kid who'd been lucky enough to win a post as partner. As years passed and candy failed to equate with escapism, so faded the glee with which he regarded each new product they made. Though business still boomed, the only thing left, it seemed, was his fortune of being endowed with the businessman's sense of marketing the correct gimmicks to the correct audience. That aspect of their partnership, at least, was flourishing.

As Charlie grew older, the notions he carried of Wonka's candy were replaced by a profound infatuation with the man himself. He'd been devoted to the candy genius for every one of his sixteen years and was reaching the end of his tether as far as wanting to declare himself. Perhaps more importantly, Charlie needed to find out if his love was reciprocated. He was the only person in Wonka's life; surely he could come to be special.

Charlie approached his mentor and perched on the edge of his bench. Wonka's long legs were stretched far out in front of him, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Although he faced the general direction of the rushing chocolate waterfall, his eyes were focused on something very far away.

At times like this Charlie imagined Wonka was searching for something magical, and inventing an ingenious way to attach candy to it.

At times like this, Charlie could not find his partner more desirable.

Wonka's hair was cut short again these days, which Charlie preferred, although he did think it made Willy look rather more ordinary. He would never tell the man for it couldn't matter in the least, and no one saw Wonka but Charlie.

He attempted to announce his presence. "Mr. Wonka?" This met no response. Charlie took the opportunity to lay a hand on Wonka's shoulder. "Willy?" Still in rather a deep retreat, Wonka merely grunted. "You inventing?" Charlie asked.

Wonka finally turned to look at Charlie. "Yes. Oh, hello Charlie."

Charlie regarded him with amusement--Wonka lost and distracted, in that state--as if he were emerging from a deep sleep. Charlie smirked as he wagged his head side-to-side. "Whatever is it like in there?" he asked.

"Hmmh? In where?"

"In here," Charlie answered, playfully knocking on Wonka's head. "Where do you go?"

"I'm here. Just...deeper. I'm trying to listen."

"Listen to what?"

"The ideas."

Charlie marveled at Wonka's cryptic reply. The man was a lifetime-supply of amazement, never ceasing to awe and inspire him. The wish that some of this talent would rub off on him flitted briefly though his brain. "I'd love to spend a day in your mind--especially when you're inventing--just to know how you think. It must be wonderful."

A flattered smile beamed across Wonka's face and he gazed right into Charlie, invading and caressing at the same time. "It is! Jam-packed with thoughts just flying around like mad. It's hard to keep up with them all." He took a deep breath, let it out wearily as he said, "But it's also exhausting. Thinking doesn't always feel like a choice."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, only that it would be nice to turn off that receptive part of my brain for a bit--get some rest."

Charlie was horrified. "You don't want to do that--not if that's where the new ideas come from."

Wonka gestured broadly with his hands, pushing up from his heels to sit straighter. "New? Nothing's new. Surely, Charlie, you know that there are an infinite number of thoughts, ideas, and worlds of possibility out there just floating around. Some of them occupy the exact space I do, or the exact space you do. I'm just grabbing them. Well, some of them. Others break in on their own." He sighed shallowly.

The fatigue in Mr. Wonka's voice was slightly disconcerting, so different from his usual vivaciousness when at work, but Charlie was not unduly concerned. It all went with the territory of the state of concentration Wonka disappeared into. "I can see how that would be confusing...and crowded. How do you go about sorting through all of it?"

Wonka shrugged. "Once they're in, they're in. Some just sit and simmer and work themselves out and don't need to be actively thought on...and that can be a relief. Other ideas come and go. When each has been sussed I move on. But each time, however it plays out, the inventing process is just as exciting, just as wonderful." His lips twitched into a dreamy, private smile--a privacy Charlie longed to unravel.

Charlie hung his arm over the back of the bench, pressing his attention toward the man. Speaking low, he coaxed: "What does it feel like? Right now, while you're there, tell me."

Wonka was indeed in another world, and continued in it. "Sublime. It's not good enough merely to invent. The invention is just scratching the surface. I need to make it work. If there's a glimmer of hope I must go for it. I need to take it apart, ingredient by ingredient and see how they work against each other, for each other, among each other. It's visual. It's cerebral. It's sensual." Wonka had been gradually speaking louder, faster, and more animatedly. By the end of his speech he was alert, leaning forward toward Charlie, breathing more heavily in his enthusiasm.

Charlie stared back, ensnared in mirroring Wonka's joy. There was a mad sparkle in the candy maker's eyes--a shimmering light that appeared when he was at his most intense. It was not a reflection of any light source, for even in the dim night time of the Chocolate Room it gleamed. This light came from within Willy Wonka. Such unspeakable magic simultaneously thrilled and unsettled Charlie. Just as suddenly as it appeared, the glimmer faded, and Wonka looked away from the lock of Charlie's gaze.

Determined to get to the bottom of Wonka's enigmatic glow, Charlie pushed on. "Do you think of anything else? I mean, do all of your thoughts occupy you so...intensely?"

"Mm-mm. More or less," Wonka blurted evasively. It seemed to be too late; Wonka had already retreated from that line of questioning.

"Can you teach me the way you invent?" Charlie asked, moving on.

At this, Wonka seemed pleased to continue. He surveyed the ceiling before plunging in. "It requires tapping into your imagination, your intuition. Some of the process is far more obvious and literal, of course. That's why I have you spend so much time in the Inventing Room." He wheeled on Charlie, ticking off points on own fingers. "Study ingredients. Sample everything. Know what you like and why. Know what you dislike and why. Give new ideas a chance or you might miss something, but if you don't believe in it completely, dismiss it. It's just as important to know when something is not working."

Charlie's head was now swimming with what seemed like conflicting advice, and he grew increasingly worried he would one day let Mr. Wonka down. The pressure to be prolific as an idea man...this empire resting upon him... What genius did he possess to tap into? The best he could do would be to preserve what Mr. Wonka had already done and hope it could withstand decades.

But he couldn't deceive his mentor. "Mr. Wonka...I'm not sure I'm the right one. That's not me. You know it takes me hours with a piece of paper just brainstorming what color a wrapper should be--"

Wonka cut him off. "Don't start this again. Give yourself time! It took me years to learn all I needed to know to be a chocolatier."

"But when you were my age you were much further along."

"I had to be. I was damaged earlier."

Charlie appeared not to have noticed this last comment as his voice rose higher in desperation. "I'm supposed to be your heir, and I do want to do right by you. What do I need to do?"

Wonka huffed a bitter chuckle. "That's just it. As my heir, it may not be so much a question about what to learn, so much as what you need. You need to be defective. As the man said, 'You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a--' Well...that might not be the most apt analogy. He was speaking of a passion more along the lines of a character defect--a life defeated by obsession." Wonka's voice turned ugly, full of angry scorn. "Why are we always told it isn't healthy to obsess? A damaged person is driven to do just that!"

Charlie would have given his soul to take away Wonka's hurt. "But you can't choose what--or who--" he added quickly, shivering, "you obsess on. It's more like the obsession chooses you. You can't blame your obsessions."

Wonka studied Charlie's face for some time, eyes darting over the boy's face. That eerie flicker was back, just as inscrutable as ever. If only he could learn to decipher its various meanings, Charlie thought, he may have the key to understanding Mr. Wonka. Those eyes betrayed--or mirrored--everything he thought, but with an ambiguous front. Somewhere underneath, Wonka looked pleased; Charlie got the impression he'd said the right thing.

Wonka spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "I don't blame them; I praise them. My passions made me what I am. They possess me...give me focus...give me purpose. You see, my inventions are so much more. They're what I do. I wouldn't be me without them."

Charlie felt an uncomfortable tingling under his skin at Wonka's words. Wonka had articulated every feeling Charlie had for the man himself. He shuddered silently, empathizing inside his own obsession.

"They're very personal items, ideas. When you bring them out, you put yourself into your inventions. There's a little piece of Willy Wonka in each of my candies. When people eat them, they connect with me."

"Cannibalism," Charlie mused out loud.

"Precisely," Wonka said. "I'll be very curious to see the ideas that come out of you."

The young man blinked. "I don't think I can do things the way you do."

Wonka's tone became reassuring. "It doesn't have to be the way you do things. But you have the right kind of...drive. I think you understand more than you imagine you do. Listen to me, Charlie. I trust you. It's been twenty years since I could say that I trust. I trust you with my ideas; I will leave them to you. Just be true to my vision--my obsession. Try to do things from my point of view...but add your essence to mine. Get to know each idea inside and out. That's the key for me. By studying it, I make it mine."

"It's like being in love," Charlie interjected, carefully studying Wonka's eyes for a reaction to this bait. If there was emotion to be read, it would be found there.

Wonka sat back and considered. "No. Yes. Mostly no." Finally dismissing it with a shake of the head he said, "You can't love a person the same way you love an idea."

Charlie felt his insides leap, an "I love you" trapped in the back of his throat, choking him, too big to come out.

Wonka continued with extreme reluctance. "That's why it's important that I tell you all this, Charlie. I only have one love, one obsession: my factory." He spread his hands in indication of their surroundings.

Charlie's heart missed three beats.

Wonka paused. "My obsession is bigger than me, it's more than me. It's a lot to take care of." Charlie felt the room spin.

He couldn't bear to look into Willy's eyes any longer. He had been desperate for Wonka to lean in and kiss him...but now he was certain he never would. And it was almost all right. If Willy didn't have such all-consuming passion for him...well, it was too much to take in.

Whether by emulation or by nature, Charlie too was unable to stop any emotion from being revealed on his own face. But unlike his mentor, Charlie was an open book.

Sick with embarrassment and heartache, the young man's head reeled. He couldn't see, couldn't think. Didn't want to think. Things would never be cheerful again.

Wonka broke the silence. "You're wasting the wrong emotion. You have too much love. Love can only take you so far, and I believe you are mistaken. Obsession isn't always about love. Whatever feelings you have for..." He trailed off and started again. "Whatever your obsession is, whatever drives you--use it. Even if it's painful. Hurt is a strong emotion and one needs strength to create. Your hurt is part of you too."

"I have too much hurt." Charlie could barely get the words out.

"Me too," Wonka replied softly.

Both sat silently staring at the grass, not wanting to stay or leave.

Wonka whispered, "It's all right, kiddo. It's all right."

In a futile gesture, Wonka extended an arm around the boy's shoulders, and Charlie slumped limply against him. Finally damaged, Charlie fell face-first into Wonka's shoulder, sobbing.