PLEASE READ: This fiction is not out there to bash gays. Far from it. But Wonka has a decent case of Aphenphosmphobia -a fear of being touched. You all saw how he acted with a hug; I can only imagine this is how he would act with a kiss, male or otherwise. Again, this has nothing to do with homosexuality -it's just an event which happens to be between two men.
He'd read somewhere that when you were attracted to a much older man, you'd had a lacking parental figure. You needed someone to make up for it.
But there was no question he'd had good parents, particularly a good father.
The result of this knowledge was that he didn't have any idea of what he was doing.
Here was a man much older and all he could do was fantasize about him and do… things –going out of his way to make sure he got a laugh so he could watch, sneaking glances at him whenever, particularly … well… he didn't want to go further into that.
He guessed he blamed it on the still new-enough hormones. He spent all of his non-school and sleeping hours working with this man –talking and laughing and being especially close.
But even after all of that explanation, he wasn't sure. The fantasies which would invade his thoughts in the privacy of his chambers…. It scared him, the kind of things his mind would come up with.
At least, for now, he couldn't act on them.
Mr. Wonka hated physical contact –even seven years later he would still tense up and squirm away uncomfortably. Who knew what he would do with a kiss.
It'd ruin the business relationship, he knew that much. But was it ever tempting! He longed to savor the chocolate out of his mouth… he probably tasted of the sweetest sugar on top of whatever candy they had just made.
But they'd been together long enough, surely he'd earned a place in Mr. Wonka's heart! If he went after him, surely he wouldn't be so scared away that he would retreat! Charlie would simply try, and if nothing became of it, he'd drop his advances.
He didn't know if he was tricking himself into believing or if he actually DID believe it would all work out. But he'd spent years with him and an entire year stealing peeks in the long hours in the inventing room and fantasies and the like had made him bold. Bold enough to jump into the risk.
Or, perhaps 'stupid' was a better word.
Regardless, he was jumping in tomorrow.
It was a difficult day, to be sure. Mr. Wonka had come up with a lollypop idea –which led to all sorts of nasty thoughts about licking.
He quickly did his best to hide the blush.
But, again, Mr. Wonka was blissfully ignorant of everything outside of what he was doing or wanted to be true.
Charlie had been accused, more than a few times, of mumbling.
He'd been told even more times that Mr. Wonka was 'going deaf and really DID need to get around to calling that ear doctor'.
But he truly believed that Mr. Wonka hadn't seen or he was, amazingly, choosing to not comment. It was more likely the former, knowing how easily he would blurt something out –regardless of whether or not it was a horrid thing to say.
Brutal honesty was more than common around the factory.
It was so hard to stare at those lips, such a deep pink that it looked bizarre compared to the paleness of his face and what was exposed of his neck. The rest of his body, which was always neurotically concealed, would be close to if not completely white. You could probably see nearly every vein on him.
If only he would so much as take off his gloves so he could check…
And then go on to remove the coat, the shirt and so on.
Mr. Wonka was staring at him oddly, now; he was waiting for him to say something. Charlie blinked back into reality from his fantasy about checking the color of every inch of skin.
"I'm sorry, my mind was somewhere else. What were you saying?" Those gorgeous lips smiled broadly as Mr. Wonka pushed over a pad of his personal stationary (lilac with his curling, silver 'W' at the top corner) and a pencil.
"You have to write it down!" He told him urgently, beaming with all the eagerness of a child, "I can't begin to tell you all of the ideas which were lost in Looma Land without any paper. Like this one time…" As he went off on some story, Charlie mentally swore.
Now he had to come up with something.
As Mr. Wonka rambled on and on, he slapped something together about chocolate horses that ran around and dogs that wagged their tails. That should keep him happy.
Now finished, Charlie began to wonder how much of the story was true.
Well, Mr. Wonka never lied, so that wasn't the right phrase. What he would do was leave parts out that he didn't think were relevant. When fighting the Wangdoodle, there was probably a lot more running than he was telling. But he was happy as he told the story, so why stop him?
"…And I'm sure it would have been my greatest but Wangdoodle's don't care about that for some reason. It's very rude." The story was ended with a nod –as if all attacking animals stop and wait for their prey to write down their ideas before mauling and this one was just out of the ordinary.
Charlie didn't care if the only time the fight instinct kicked in was when he became too tired to continue flight. Mr. Wonka was hear and beautiful and oh, so tempting.
And it had come to the point he pushed the consequences so far back that they were almost non-existent.
Surely nothing would come of it!
Charlie rushed in to greedily capture the chocolateer's mouth, holding his by the back of his head and shoulder to keep him in place so he could fully explore.
He DID taste of chocolate and strawberries!
On his end, Wonka was stuck in shock for a long while, eyes darting fearfully as he desprately tried to come up with what he was to do.
He hated people he hated touch he hated this.
What do you mean you don't want to feel anything else?
It's been three years. Can you be a man about it?
It's just sex! Everyone else can get it up! What the hell is wrong with you?
No, no, NO! He wasn't going to loose his head! He… he needed to get out of this. Get to his chambers and lock himself in and scour his skin with a scrub brush and boiling water to that he'd be clean and safe. He was being clamped on to three different ways and he didn't know why anyone would enjoy this and how hadn't he seen this coming and why couldn't he escape?
Oh God oh God oh God…
He was panic breathing and whimpering into the hungry mouth and his pulse was racing and he was sweating and shaking and he wondered how long it would be until…
He was miraculously released.
Charlie smiled at him for a split second before fully coming to terms with the reaction he was getting.
Wonka's face was pink because it couldn't decide if paling or blushing would be a better response –his breath was coming out in ragged pants. Wonka stared at Charlie like a crazed animal, eyes never having him as Mr. Wonka grappled for his cane.
The jury was still out on how much Mr. Wonka actually needed that cane –since he always walked with it but used it so lightly it was next to pointless. Now, however, it seemed the need had grown to complete dependence.
Stumbling to find a firm placement with his shaky hand, Mr. Wonka hesitantly moved away –never once taking his wide eyes off of Charlie as if by doing so he would be attacked.
Whatever Charlie had expected the reaction to be, it hadn't been primal terror. He stood slowly, holding his hands up as non-threateningly as he could.
"Mr. Wonka… I'm sorry…" he began as hesitantly as possible –speaking as you would to a frightened deer, dare you speak to it at all. Mr. Wonka shook his head –the whites' blood shot around lilac irises.
He was backing more quickly to the door, now; the cane was just as shaky as before but he was making do with minimal stumbles.
Charlie took the smallest step forward.
But he stepped on a twig and the deer bounded into the glass elevator and was taken away.
Charlie just stared numbly at the empty passage for what could have been years.
The water hitting his skin was positively boiling –scalding where the scrub brush had made open wounds on his shoulder. But it was better than cold.
Cold was a punishment… the last thing he wanted now was more punishment.
God, every time! What the hell is wrong with it?
Are you even trying?
My son can't even get through one date! What sort of failure did I raise?
You kissed my God damn eye, you freak!
From where he sat, he grabbed the bottle of mouth wash off the corner of the tub, gargled and spat behind into the drain –hesitating for a moment to watch the blue liquid swirl then disappear down the drain.
You have to do some of the work!
What do you mean 'just talk'?
I'm leaving you.
Goodbye, Willy.
Don't call me again, jackass.
He huddled into a ball, letting the water pound into the cuts. He hadn't had THOSE memories in years. Gosh darn that Charlie, what was he to do now?
He sat for a long while longer before slowly, hesitantly, he reached back, turned off the faucet, reached for the towel and dried himself.
All that was simple.
Now came the hard part –finding the strength to stand and leave the safety of the tub.
He'd quadruple locked the doors, he reminded himself, and double locked the bathroom door. No one could be there to see him or touch him or kiss him or anything that would bring back any memories. No one could be there, period.
He was safe and safe and safe again.
Still…
Willy sat for a long while, just staring at the lilac shower curtain decorated in pictures of the most festive candies. He just had to stand, open the curtain and put on his bathrobe. He'd always liked that bathrobe, all plum and fuzzy and oh, so good looking. As if anyone but him would ever see him in it.
Gosh darn it! He was being so silly! He firmly stood and peeked outside of the shower to see if anyone was there. Of course there wasn't, but still.
Once again instilled with confidence, he put on his bathrobe and left to his personal chamber. There was a cozy fire waiting, along with his favorite arm chair. Now that he was very much clean, he happily sunk into it.
Willy was relaxed for the first time in hours, so it was finally time to figure out exactly what he would do. After all, the best ideas always came when you were either very busy or had just sat down to relax.
He most certainly could not TALK to Charlie, oh my, no that would never do. Charlie might try to stick his tongue back down his throat and it is hard to get out whatever has to be with a tongue down your throat.
Should he telephone? That might work. But what if he forgot something? He couldn't write note cards for every possible situation! The very fate of there relationship could rest on a few words! He couldn't risk it.
If he wrote a letter, it could all hinge on his hand writing! What a horrible thing that would be!
What if… what if he wrote him a letter and read it out loud? It'd have to be in person to make sure it was exactly who he thought he was talking to and not some spy.
He nodded firmly to himself. He would do just that.
No one, at least no one who spoke to Charlie had seen Mr. Wonka for days. Which was odd and troubling, considering how close to Halloween they were getting –it was Mr. Wonka's favorite and most profitable holiday, after all. He always said it was the one time where people took candy as seriously (right, seriously) as he did. And Wonka Industries would not be the only company without at least two new candies on shelves.
Usually at this time of year, Mr. Wonka rarely left the inventing room; even sleeping and eating there. He would end the season missing an eyebrow or something from experiments and needing a shower desprately.
But, thanks to Charlie, the room was tainted rather than wonderful and magical as it had once been. He'd ruined the greatest place in the whole factory.
However, he still had work to do. He'd been toiling on the idea for moving chocolate, but so far he'd had no luck.
What plagued him was that he knew Mr. Wonka had done something like this before.
Do to fear or spies, everything was by memory and word of mouth in the factory. Everything. Mr. Wonka never wrote his recipes down and, as a result, it was nearly impossible for Charlie to recreate anything. It was a wonder how anything got done.
At least he'd somehow gotten the lollypop idea to work out; now, at least, the fantasies had given in to frustration upon finding out that the Oompa Loompas either couldn't (or wouldn't) read a recipe.
Considering there was a school in the little village Mr. Wonka had built for them, the later was probably true.
Charlie sighed heavily as he stepped off the boat onto the little platform, flipping key after key. It was going to be yet another infuriating day as he tried to figure the process out on his own.
Upon opening the door, he was forced to stop and stare.
There was Mr. Wonka. He stood nervously in the least revealing of all his clothing (which said a lot), gloved hands clutching a paper and shifting his weight uncomfortably while still heavily relying on the cane. He offered Charlie a nervous smile as he raised the paper from where it had pointedly been hiding his crotch to where he could now read it.
"Dear Charlie," he began, exactly as he would to a crowd, "I'm going to read this so that you don't judge me on my handwriting, 'cause that would just be sad. I'm sorry I haven't been back for our most crucial time, but I talked to the Oompa Loompa's and they say you've kept everything right as rain, so that's just super!" He offered Charlie a grin. But it wasn't a TRUE Wonka smile; it was only the one he wore for company. It hurt more than anything he could have said -almost.
"I've been thinking about this long and hard, and I've decided that if you were anyone else, you would have been banished from the factory. I just can't have someone around who's trying to get their tongue down my throat all the time, can I?" He gave another nervous smile, "But you're my heir and heirs' are important, especially at this time of year." And there was the big stab. It was only because of what he was and what time of year it was rather than WHOM he was.
"But we can't dilly OR dally on this any longer, right? There's work to be done!" Mr. Wonka grinned –something far closer to his actual smile than before. He motioned to the place Charlie had ruined hesitantly.
The two stood, staring at each other for a long time. Charlie finally returned an uneasy smirk and took his place at the table. Mr. Wonka looked like he hadn't planned for this step as he stood perfectly still.
Finally, he took the first steps toward the seat; looking distinctly as if he was walking to the electric chair.
Mr. Wonka laughed awkwardly as he sat down –distinctly scooting his chair a bit farther away.
"I…" he began, looking everywhere but at Charlie, "I worked on the animals… I think… I think if we take it a day at a time and put everything else aside… everything should work out. What do YOU think?"
Charlie smiled warmly, "I think that sounds wonderful."