Chapter 29- The Farthest Shore
Up in the desolation of the canopy, Wonka handed Charlie the fruit.
They sat in the strange half-light that accompanies the moment before dawn, full of the ripe promise of day. And the door between night and day cracked open into a moment that existed outside of itself, where mystery and magic might happen, and anything could slip through. Delicate unfolding flowers brimmed with bright dew; the air hung thick with the song of sap, wax, rotting fruit and azaleas.
Charlie and Wonka sat up high in the trees, where the branches grew as thick as two arms span and Wonka could lean quite comfortably against the trunk, Charlie safely in his arms. He sat sideways in his lap, his head resting against Wonka's chest.
Charlie felt as though inside him was a bowl of still water. Peace enveloped him like a Chinese box. He could hear the calm beating of Wonka's heart. He begun to feel so wonderful, so bright, so illuminated, that he wanted to clasp hold of the feeling, hold it tight to him. The feeling burbled to his lips, and he was struck with the desire to confess something, anything.
"I-" he started.
"Shh," Wonka said gently. Charlie subsided back into him, watching, as Wonka reached with a slow lethargy to pluck, from the laden branches above, an engorged ruby-red snozzberry. And then: Wonka's moonlight pale skin, his veins like tiny dark roots, his delicate ligaments, the half-moons whites of his nails, as he offered the fruit to Charlie. He traced the boy's lips with the ghostliest of touches, easing them open a crack with a finger. Their eyes locked. Charlie accepted the fruit from his hand. It was very dark, very sweet, and the juice dribbled down his chin.
Something very strange, very potent rose up in Charlie, a wave in calm waters.
He kissed the juice and the sticky seeds from Wonka's fingers, and then, sucked them; intoxicating, the snozzberry mixed with Wonka's own mesmerising taste.
The man's eyes were bright, heady, terrified.
Charlie clasped Wonka's hand painfully tight, pulling it around his own waist. He wanted to be closer to him, so close there wasn't an inch between them. Close enough he could shuck off his body and crawl into him- close enough he could be him...
"Mr Wonka," he pleaded, though even he didn't know, wasn't sure what he was pleading for...
Wonka buried his face in Charlie's soft neck in despair. "I don't know... my dear boy, I don't think- I'm not sure-"
"Willy," Charlie said fiercely.
"Oh. Oh!" the little noise was dragged from Wonka in anguish, but there was no more conscious thought after that, only the dizzying, hot, sublime fall.
To be continued.
