Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.

Ahh, yes, the chapter before the chapter with the aftermath of this chapter. Beautiful. Oh, by the way, I took one of Meredith A. Jones's ideas and flicked it into this chapter. Try and figure out which it is. ((cough))

It wasn't as if Peter and Charlie had never met; it was almost certain that because Willy and James had known each other for a month, now, the boys would have met. Of course, being it a random occasion when Willy ever brought Charlie with him to see James—James rarely brought any of his boys—they barely knew each other. The times when they did come with their older friends, they'd all do small plays together. Sometimes Charlie would sit out voluntarily and watch the Llewellyn-Davies's play, just to get the hang of it, or even just because he found it more fun to watch.

Naturally, through Peter (he'd become closer to Peter than any of the other boys), Charlie knew James. Charlie knew James so well at this point that he had no problem talking to him. James adored Charlie almost (not quite!) as much as he adored the other four boys, and he had no problem listening to him.

Therefore, Charlie asked James a question.

"What do you think of Mr. Wonka?"

James stared at Charlie, his eyes wide as saucers. "Charlie…." When he saw that the boy was serious, he sighed. "I'm…not sure."

Charlie didn't blink. Instead, he looked down the pathway at nothing in particular. "It's a little known fact," he said softly, "that Mr. Wonka prefers watching rehearsals than the actual plays themselves. He's seen a few Shakespeare rehearsals; by far, he enjoyed those more than the actual productions."

There was silence between Charlie and James, and the playwright frowned, listening to the laughter of George, Jack, Michael, and Peter some feet behind the bench he was sitting on. He didn't think in sentences for fear of saying them aloud again, and instead, he broke his thoughts into fragments.

Quite random information. Point obscure. Distracted. Prefers rehearsals….

Prefers rehearsals.

Charlie caught the dawning in James's expression, and he inwardly smiled. "He likes to know how things work. That's why he watches rehearsals."

"Lad," James said almost inaudibly, "you may be the smarter of the two people sitting on this very bench."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Charles Frohman—James M. Barrie's producer, best friend, and painfully honest critic—was actually at a complete loss for words later the night that Charlie lit a light in James's mind. The cigar in his mouth practically fell out as he tried to grasp exactly what James was asking him.

"Wait a second," Charles muttered, picking the cigar out from between his teeth and frowning at the floor. "Are you asking me if you can actually bring a man with you to this rehearsal?"

"Well, no," James confessed. "All of them, really."

"All of who?"

"All of the rehearsals, Charles," James corrected. "You see, I've been trying to…well, to put it simply, I'm…."

Charles looked up, scratching the beard that his face was starting to outgrow. "If you're about to tell me that you prefer gentlemen to ladies, I'm about to tell you that this comes as much as a surprise to me as the news of Peter Pan becoming a huge hit did to you."

James lifted an eyebrow, walking with Charles to the front of the theater he rehearsed and sometimes performed his plays in. "Actually, it was quite a surprise, if that was your intention with the analogy."

Charles blinked in mock astonishment. "You're gay?"

James grinned and playfully nudged Charles, who laughed in turn. James sat in a seat in the second row, Charles sitting a seat behind him. The playwright turned to face his friend, his brow furrowed. "How did you find out?"

Charles took a puff from his cigar and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "Only logical explanation for your wife leaving you."

"But Sylvia—"

"But nothing, kid. I'm not dense, Jim, when I first met you, you were flirting all over the place. It was actually rather comical because you're short as hell."

James bit his lip and looked to the left of Charles, frowning.

"It's okay; you can bring the man with you. I don't mind criticizing another human being besides you."

"You're too kind, Charles," said James sarcastically, turning back to face the stage.

"Love you too, Jim."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"JAMES!"

James blushed furiously, staring as Willy jumped behind a tree, trying (idiotically) to hide from the man whose name he'd just screamed. He wasn't embarrassed from the outburst itself; rather, he was embarrassed because he'd been standing next to Willy for exactly fifteen minutes before letting his presence be known. Obviously this startled Willy.

"Sorry," James murmured before clearing his throat. He, too, had a cane, not for medical reasons, but because he never went anywhere besides the park and his house without it. He currently swung it at his side, keeping the other hand behind his back. "I wanted to ask you something."

Willy peered around the tree, his top hat and bizarre sunglasses the only visible things at the moment. "Yes?"

"Come out from there, I want to ask you something without the tree being in the way."

Willy shuffled out from around the tree, staring at James. After a moment, he flashed a brilliant smile. "Hi!"

"Hi," James said back. He cleared his throat again, trying hard to mask the effect Willy's smile had on him. "Er…do you like plays?"

Willy eyed him warily, which, to James, only seemed like he was staring bluntly at him due to the fact that his eyes were, undeniably, hidden. "I do," he said, smiling again. "I'd rather see how they're done, first."

"Great," James said, genuinely smirking and leaning on his cane. "Would you like to come see one of my rehearsals?"

Willy's smile fell right off his face and crashed onto the ground. He swallowed, fidgeting again. He loved rehearsals…he couldn't turn one down…but why would he want to? This is the man he had inexplicably fallen in love with—why would he possibly want to turn down an opportunity to spend time with him?

"Sure."

Sometimes, Willy Wonka made absolutely no sense.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

James kissed the Llewellyn-Davies children on the forehead, making sure he tucked them in before doing so. He was feeling especially giddy tonight, and he had every reason and right to be.

When he got to Peter, the boy smiled. "Good luck on your date, Mr. Barrie."

James rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure you can quite call it that yet, Peter."

The young boy just grinned and closed his eyes as James closed the door, his hands shaking only slightly.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Your shoes are a bit scuffed..."

"Never mind that, Charlie, I've got to go. I'm supposed to meet James in exactly—" Willy looked at the twisted clock in the Bucket house. "—ten minutes."

Charlie raised his eyebrows. "It's a good thing we're not that far from the theater then, isn't it?"

Willy tilted his head, surprised at this "new" Charlie Bucket. But he had no time to ponder this revelation, so he turned, grabbed his hat, goggles, and cane, and quickly walked out the door, the Buckets calling after him:

"Good luck, Willy, dear!"

"See you later, Mr. Wonka!"

"Have fun!"

"Good-bye!"

"Take care!"

"Don't have too much fun!"

"Socks are funny things, aren't they?"

I'm only happy with one part of the next chapter, unfortunately...I feel this story is lacking the drama it was categorized under, so...I'm trying to shove it in here...not exactly satisfying me...

Oh...that sounded so wrong...