Author's Notes: I can't apologize enough for the long delay between chapters. I've run into some problems with this story, and I had to take some time off to work my way through them. I'm hoping that I can be more on top of things from now on. A special thanks goes out to IDOL HANDS whose gentle nudge helped to get me back on track with this piece.
I'm pleased to announce yet another new addition to the beta team. Everybody say hello to Oddmanrush.. Gratias tibi ago! Thanks also to Reibish and Trilliah, who've both helped me with this story in innumerable ways. And another thank you goes out to Nuin for her honest feedback.
But of course, the biggest thanks of all goes out to all of you who've stuck by me while I tried to get my act in gear. Without all of you lovely readers, I would probably have given up on this story ages ago.
Distance Makes the Heart, chapter ten
by Piscaria
Charlie didn't know how long they held held each other. Wonka's sobs had finally stopped some time ago, replaced by long shuddering breaths. In time, those too faded away. He now was laying quietly against Charlie's chest, his head still resting on Charlie's shoulder. Charlie stroked his hair, soaking in this rare closeness between them. They had touched before, but always with an element of formality between them -- Charlie could count on one hand the number of times they'd embraced before now. But this? Nothing in the world compared to having Willy Wonka resting warm against him, to burying his fingers in Wonka's hair. When Wonka finally pulled away, Charlie had to will his muscles to let go.
Wonka smiled nervously, lifting a hand to self-consciously smooth his hair. He was pulling his decorum around him again, doing his best to build the old wall of formality back up between them. Charlie smiled and watched him fondly, and after a second, Wonka gave up, managing a nervous chuckle. Their eyes met, and the uncertainty in Wonka's face eased a little.
"You look terrible," Wonka said, studying Charlie with a wry twist to his lips.
Charlie touched his own face-- he couldn't remember when he'd started crying, but his cheeks still felt raw from the salty tears, and he knew that his shirt was rumpled from Wonka's grip.
"You don't look so good yourself," he said, feeling justified in stretching the truth for once. Even with red cheeks, swollen eyes and rumpled hair, Wonka was one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen.
Wonka laughed, and Charlie knew he'd said the right thing. Still chuckling, the chocolatier scooted to the far side of the armchair, opening a space between them. Charlie only hesitated a second before sliding off of the chair's arm to fill it. The armchair was large, and they were both slender men, but even so, it was a tight fit, and Charlie felt absurdly grateful for that. After so many months apart, this physical closeness felt warm and somehow necessary, like sunlight. Wonka seemed to feel the same way. He smiled a little, his eyes fixed on the tapestries across the room, and carefully slid his arm around Charlie's waist, drawing them even closer together. Charlie grinned and leaned against the other man companionably.
"I've been so horrible to you," Charlie said quietly. "Why didn't you tell me it was Mum's idea to send me away?"
"Cowardice," Wonka said. His face looked infinitely sad. "Pure cowardice, my boy."
"What do you mean, cowardice?" Charlie protested. "You took the blame when you didn't have to. How can that possibly be cowardice?"
"There are different kinds of cowardice," Wonka said quietly. "It was easier for me to take the blame than to be honest with you."
"Be honest with me," Charlie whispered, laying his hand over Wonka's gloved one.
Wonka froze. His breath came sharply. He wouldn't meet Charlie's eyes. For a moment, something seemed to be building inside of him, the same rising force of inspiration or bravery that always seemed to preface each new idea or change in their relationship. For a second, Charlie thought Wonka might actually take him up on his dare.
But the moment faded. Wonka exhaled softly and seemed to fold in on himself. His hand slid out from beneath Charlie's.
"I can't Charlie," he said softly. "I can't."
"You won't," Charlie corrected bitterly.
Wonka nodded, looking pained. "I won't," he repeated.
Charlie sighed, leaning back against the chair. The sudden sense of despair he felt threatened to overwhelm him. "You never want to let me in," he said softly. "How are we supposed to be partners someday if you don't trust me enough to tell me anything?"
"No," Wonka protested. "That's not it at all!" He glanced suddenly away from Charlie, as if he couldn't stand to meet his eyes. "Don't you realize? I've let you in too far." He sighed, looking down at the carpet. "Maybe that's the real reason I made you go," he said softly, as if he were speaking to himself. "I needed to see if I could lose you."
"Could you?" Charlie asked, needing to hear the answer, but dreading it all the same.
Wonka glanced up at him, an ironic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No," he said. "Not as long as there's any other option."
Unsure what to say, Charlie simply reached again, resting his hand on Wonka's arm. This time, Wonka allowed the touch. Charlie stroked Wonka's arm gently through his silk shirt. When the silence rose up between them again, it was deeper than before, thick with the words they hadn't allowed themselves to say. They sat together, each lost in his own thoughts, connected by the steady stroke of Charlie's bare fingers on Wonka's sleeve.
They both jumped when the clock in the corner struck twelve.
"I should go," Charlie said. "It's getting late."
"Yes," Wonka said softly. "You probably should."
Charlie reluctantly drew away from Wonka and climbed to his feet. The chocolatier followed him to the doorway, where they studied each other for a moment. They were of a height for once; Wonka had removed his boots for the night.
"Good night, Mr. Wonka," Charlie said.
Wonka smiled sadly in reply. "Good night, Charlie."
Charlie started to turn, and then Wonka's hand was on his wrist, stopping him.
"Charlie," Wonka said. "I'm trying. I really am trying."
"I know," Charlie said wearily. He managed a smile, relieved to see Wonka relaxing slightly at the sight of it. "Let me know when you're ready," he said softly.
Wonka nodded and squeezed Charlie's wrist gently before releasing it. "My dear boy," he promised. "You'll be the first to know."
Charlie nodded and, turning, started the long journey back up the stairs. He already knew that they wouldn't speak of this in the morning.
The next morning in the inventing room, Charlie stirred a pot full of boiling purple goo, carefully scraping the sides and the bottoms of the pot with his wooden spoon to keep the thick mess of blueberries from burning. As he stirred, he looked, not at the pot itself, but at the air above it, where steam rolled up in violet clouds, only to be sucked into the pipes above his head. Once trapped, the steam circled twice above the work table (the pipes were bent into an infinity knot there) and passed through a set of cooling fans, where it condensed back into liquid and dripped down into a waiting flask. When a good three inches of liquid had collected there, Charlie removed the pot from the burner, and turned towards the group of waiting Oompa-Loompas.
"I think it's ready."
They fell into motion around him, their movements coordinating with each other like clockwork. One of them caught up the flask of violet liquid and carried it across the room to the machine Charlie had taken out of storage that morning. Pouring it carefully into one of the machine's many chambers, he checked a few dials on the side, quickly adjusted some of the settings, and gave a thumbs-up sign to Charlie.
"Here goes nothing," Charlie said, and pulled the lever.
The machine started up in a burst of sound and flashing lights. Gathering around it, the Oompa-Loompas watched as the mechanical chute unfolded and dispensed a single stick of Wonka's Magic Chewing Gum.
Charlie took it carefully, and his test subject stepped forward. "Are you ready?" Charlie asked, a little nervously.
The Oompa-Loompa, whose name was Dave, nodded bravely and held out his hand. Charlie handed him the stick of gum and he took it gingerly, as though it might explode. The other Oompa-Loompas gathered around now, waiting to see what would happen.
With only a single swallow betraying his nervousness, Dave put the gum in his mouth and began to chew.
"How is it?" Charlie asked.
"Tomato soup," Dave said. "Delicious, of course." He kept chewing, and his voice grew a bit more nervous as he said, "Here comes the baked potato. Roast beef. Hmm. It needs more ketchup, boss."
Charlie nodded to a second Oompa-Loompa, who took a note of that.
"Blueberry pie," Dave announced nervously, and Charlie and the collected Oompa-Loompas held their breath. Dave continued to chew, his eyes screwed shut, as if in concentration or prayer. Charlie stared at his nose, waiting for the familiar spot of violet to appear. But nothing happened.
Dave stopped chewing and blinked, looking faintly surprised at having not turned into a blueberry. "It's finished," he said, taking the gum from his mouth.
"How do you feel?" Charlie asked, as the medical Oompa-Loompas circled the test subject, looking for any signs of adverse change.
Dave shrugged. "Full."
Charlie grinned in relief, leaning back against the work table. From behind him, he heard the slow clap of gloved hands. Turning, he saw Wonka standing in the doorway, a pleased smile on his face.
"You fixed it," Wonka said. "What did you do?"
"Steam distillation," Charlie said. "I thought that might capture the flavor without transmitting the . . . other properties of the blueberries."
"Brilliant," Wonka said with an electric smile.
Charlie bushed, and glanced at the floor. "It was selfishness, really," he said. "This will be a hit amongst college students. We don't have a lot of time to cook, and dorm food is terrible."
"Well I'll just have to send you back with some," Wonka promised, and Charlie smiled. Their eyes met, and they both blushed, looking away from each other.
"Did you need the room?" Charlie asked.
"No, I came to find you, silly," Wonka said. "We need to catch up on lost time." And from some hidden pocket in his jacket, he produced a pair of ice skates.
Charlie stared at them a second, dumbfounded, then burst out laughing. Even after eight years at the factory, he'd yet to figure out how Wonka managed to fit so much stuff into his pockets while maintaining his thin silhouette.
"The lake?" he asked when he managed to recover, and Wonka beamed at him.
"I had it frozen this morning."
"Not before?" Charlie asked, genuinely curious. Wonka had always loved ice skating in the factory's artificial winter -- he'd dragged Charlie onto the frozen lake more often than he could count, though Charlie's skating skills hadn't improved at all for the practice.
"There didn't seem to be much point by myself," Wonka said.
Signaling for the Oompa-Loompas to begin cleaning up, Charlie fell into step beside Wonka as they left the inventing room.
"You know I won't have gotten any better," he warned as they approached the elevator.
Wonka only shrugged. "You can't possibly have gotten any worse."
Wonka had installed the lake five years ago, as a present for Charlie's thirteenth birthday. It opened off of the chocolate room, a calm, peaceful lake of clear soda water, surrounded by swudge and peppermint trees. In honor of the season, a white coat of powdered sugar dusted the swudge and the candy-hard surface of the lake.
Stepping to the side of the frozen lake, Wonka rapped gently at it with his cane. "Oh good," he said, smiling. "It's frozen solid."
Charlie sat on the hard bench near the water, and slowly began unlacing his shoes. Wonka settled down beside him, changing into his own skates with surprising speed.
"Are you ready?" Wonka asked, rising to his feet and balancing carefully on his skates in the swudge.
Charlie nodded, and swallowed. "Ready," he said, climbing to his own feet. They stepped awkwardly to the lake in their skates. Wonka reached it first, and stepping onto the frozen soda, glided smoothly out into the center of the lake. Charlie hesitated a second at the border of the ice, already feeling the rise of panic in his throat. Taking a deep breath, he, too, stepped onto the ice, holding out his arms to catch his balance.
The first moment of sliding. Feeling he might fall. And then, opening his eyes, he realized he'd managed to remain upright once again. Still holding out his arms, he began to awkwardly skate around the edge, trying to catch the rhythm that Wonka kept counseling him to find.
Wonka, infuriatingly enough, was as graceful on ice as he was on land. He was skating backwards now, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. As Charlie watched, he turned a graceful figure-eight, his skates cutting smoothly across the hard surface of the soda. Charlie ruefully shook his head, feeling younger than ever as he struggled just to remain upright.
After a few moments, Wonka skated to his side, holding out his mittened hand. Smiling ruefully, Charlie took it, and allowed the older man to tow him to the center of the lake.
"Just relax," Wonka said, smiling sideways at Charlie.
Charlie took a deep breath, and nodded shakily. As always, he found that he was relaxing now that he had ahold of Wonka's hand. It was so much easier to balance with someone to hold onto.
"I won't let you fall," Wonka was saying. "You know that, right?"
"I know," Charlie said, managing a smile.
Wonka beamed at him. "Besides," he added, "Even if you do fall, you're not going very fast. You wouldn't get more than a bruise or two."
"And soda shavings in my hair," Charlie reminded him, smiling at the memory of their first time ice skating on this lake. He'd been a sticky mess afterward -- of course, the dusting of powdered sugar hadn't helped.
Wonka grinned. "Your mom wasn't too happy with me then, was she?"
"She's been madder," Charlie said. He'd started frowning at the thought of his mother. With effort, he managed to keep his voice even. "Remember that time I broke my arm in the squirrels-only gym?"
Wonka winced. "I still feel bad about that," he admitted.
"Don't," Charlie said. "It healed." He sighed, focusing on the movement of his feet to distract himself. "I'm still mad at her," he said softly.
Wonka glanced sideways at him and squeezed his hand. "I know."
They'd reached the center of the lake now. Wonka leaned close, and said, "I'm going to let you go. Are you ready?" Charlie nodded grimly. Wonka squeezed his hand and started to count. "One, two, three!"
On three, he released Charlie's hand, and Charlie managed to remain upright, sliding forward from pure momentum. The edge of the lake drew nearer. He managed a turn, irrationally pleased to manage it without falling. Wonka breezed by him, all sparkling eyes and dazzling smile, and Charlie grinned as he passed. Another turn. He managed this one as well, just as smoothly, and finally managed the confidence to glance up from his feet. Of course, that proved nearly to be his undoing. A spot of rough ice on the lake caught his blade. He faltered for a minute, waving his arms for balance, and then Wonka's hands were catching him, steadying him until he regained his balance. Charlie smiled his gratitude, and Wonka skated away, humming happily to himself.
The next time they passed each other, Charlie held out his hands and Wonka took them, drawing him into his orbit. Their eyes locked, and they grinned at each other. They were spinning around each other in tighter and tighter circles, joined by the axis of their clasped hands, until Wonka finally drew to a graceful halt, pulling Charlie to a stop as well, steadying him. Wonka smiled slowly, his lightheartedness gone, replaced by something deeper and more mysterious. It felt almost as if something were solidifying in the space between them. The air suddenly seemed thicker than before.
Wonka's hands released his own and slid instead up his arms, gripping him gently and pulling him even closer. Their noses brushed. Charlie's eyes focused for a moment on Wonka's lips, and he realized suddenly what was going to happen. His eyes drifted shut, and he could see Wonka's doing the same as they leaned towards each other --
An embarrassed cough from behind them broke the moment. Charlie's eyes snapped open and he released Wonka as if burned. He spun suddenly on his skates, and would have fallen had Wonka not caught his arms, steadying him.
Mr. Bucket stood in the powdered sugar snow at the edge of the lake, wearing a ridiculous knitted cap and an embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."
"You didn't!" Charlie said, a little too quickly. Wonka only quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest.
Mr. Bucket just smiled, wringing his hands together. "Charlie," he said, "Your mother's made some Christmas cookies. Why don't you two come and try some?"
"No thanks," Charlie said. "I'm not hungry." Wonka remained silent behind him, but he'd inched a bit closer to Charlie, lending his quiet support. Charlie tried to take comfort from the closeness, even while a part of him wanted to step a safe distance away from the chocolatier. What must his father be thinking?
But whatever was on Mr. Bucket's mind, this new closeness between his son and Wonka seemed to be the least of his problems. Scratching nervously behind one ear, he said, "I know that you're upset with your mother."
Charlie snorted, glaring at the sugary snow.
"I don't blame you for that," Mr. Bucket said quickly. "Mind you, I'm not sure I agree with her myself. But we're a family, son," he said quietly, his voice gentling, as it always did when he was making a point. "Whatever happens, we need to stick together. I'm not asking you to forgive her today. I'm just asking you to come back to the cottage for an hour or so."
Charlie shook his head. He glanced back at Wonka for assistance, but to his surprise, the chocolatier just bit his lip and said in a pained voice, "Charlie, I think your father's right."
"What!" Charlie cried, stepping away from Wonka. Mr. Bucket, too, looked shocked; both of them could count on one hand the number of times Wonka had sided with Charlie's parents in an argument.
Wonka smiled uncomfortably. "I don't have a family," he said softly. "But if I'd had one like yours, I wouldn't be so quick to throw them away."
"You do have a family," Charlie said, daring to squeeze Wonka's shoulder, despite his father's eyes.
Mr. Bucket nodded firmly. "Come on, both of you," he said. "Let's go home."
Charlie followed his father into the cottage to discover that the Oompa-Loompas had been there the previous night. An enormous Christmas tree took most of the available space in the Bucket family's living room -- the gingerbread cottage that Wonka had given them eight years ago was larger than their old shack, but still cozy, and for size, this tree rivaled even last year's. That had been an exceptional creation, crafted of delectable spearmint needles and almond bark. This tree smelled of pine, mixed with something a little sweeter. Vanilla maybe. Charlie would need to taste it to be sure. He took his seat on the sofa, wondering if the Oompa-Loompas were quite so sneaky in setting it up now that Charlie had moved out of the cottage. As a child, he'd tried every year to catch them at the task, but whether through magic or some conspiracy with his parents, they'd always managed to arrive after he'd fallen asleep. Once or twice, he'd woken to find that they'd set it practically on top of him -- even in the factory, few things could rival the surrealism of waking to the unexpected glow of Christmas lights and the faint brush of tinsel against your cheek.
Wonka settled on the sofa beside him, close enough to touch, but not touching. Charlie smiled gratefully at him, then turned towards his mother as she stepped into the room. She smiled nervously at both of them, smoothing her patchwork apron self-consciously. For the first time, Charlie found himself studying the lines of grey at her temples, the loose skin under her throat. He remembered the way she had cried yesterday, and a momentary trickle of pity washed through his anger. It seemed wrong to see his mother looking this uncertain around him, as if his entire world had turned upside down without his noticing.
"Would you boys like milk or hot chocolate?" Mrs. Bucket asked, with only a hint of nervous tremor in her voice. "Or there's eggnog if you'd like -- I suppose you're old enough to drink it, Charlie."
"Milk, please," Charlie said quickly, unable to picture drinking in front of his parents. Wonka asked for hot chocolate, and Mrs. Bucket disappeared back into the kitchen.
From the bed, Grandma Georgina turned her head slowly towards them. She had a bedroom of her own now, of course, but she preferred to be out in the living room, where she could still feel the bustle of the cottage around her, even if most of it did pass her by.
"It's almost Easter!" she announced, her voice weaker than Charlie had ever heard it. "George will be coming soon. He always did like mistletoe."
Wonka's lips tightened, and Charlie touched his arm, unsure which of them he was comforting. For a moment, his mind flashed back to Grandpa Joe. A month before the old man's death, Charlie had returned home to the cottage after his history lesson to hear his grandpa's voice drifting through the open window, followed by Willy Wonka's. Creeping closer, Charlie had peered through the window to see Wonka sitting on the side of the bed, arguing with his grandfather in hushed tones.
"But I'm ready to go, Mr. Wonka," Grandpa Joe says, his voice firm, though weak with age. "I always said that I could die happy if I made it back into this factory one more time, and I did, thanks to you. What more could I possibly want to live for?"
"But think about Charlie!" Wonka protests. "He loves you. What would your death do to him?"
Grandpa Joe laughs weakly, leaning back against the piled pillows."Charlie is stronger than you think, Mr. Wonka. He'll get past it. He'll have you to help him." Grandpa Joe's eyes drift shut for a moment. "It's my time, Mr. Wonka," he whispers. "I'm old."
"But you don't have to be," Wonka protests. "I told you, the Wonka-Vite--"
"The Wonka-Vite is yours, Mr. Wonka," Grandpa Joe interrupted. "Yours and Charlie's now, I suppose. You keep taking it. There's precious little magic in the world, these days. It can't afford to lose you. But I'm not magical. I've lived my life. And now I'm ready to move on."
Charlie shook his head to clear the memory, glancing at the bed, where Grandma Georgina had started snoring again. His mother emerged from the kitchen juggling a platter heaped with cookies and four steaming mugs. Charlie rose automatically to help her, the force of habit overriding his anger. His mother smiled at him as he took some of the mugs from her, but he frowned, looking away.
"Here," he said, passing the mug of hot chocolate to Wonka. Charlie handed the mug of eggnog to his father, and returned to his seat beside Wonka, holding his own glass of milk. Wonka touched his arm briefly, sympathy in his eyes.
Mrs. Bucket passed him the plate of Christmas cookies, and Charlie took one automatically, nibbling at the corner of it.
"S'good," he offered grudgingly. The grateful smile his mother gave him shot a new wave of guilt through him."I fixed the magic chewing gum today," he said, wanting to pretend, at least for a minute, that everything was normal.
"Oh?" Mrs. Bucket said, sounding relieved. "How did you do that?"
And forcing a smile, Charlie started to explain.
(to be continued . . . )
Thank you all again for your patience with this story! I'm going to try to get back onto a regular posting schedule, although I don't think I can manage every week again quite yet. How does every other week sound? For now, I'm aiming to have the next installment posted by the Wednesday after next.
As always, any questions, comments, and constructive criticism are appreciated. Thanks for reading.