sketches4mysw33theart

[sketches4mysw33theart]

[sketches4mysw33theart]

What Careers Did The Poets Have When They Grew Up?

✌️ Charlie

Not in any universe can you convince me that Charlie became a banker. He would definitely have rebelled against his parents and found a way to do his own thing. I can see him following in Keating's footsteps and becoming a teacher, maybe a university lecturer rather than high school as students have more freedom there. Alternatively, he could have gone down a more Bohemian path, and become a writer or an artist - I think he could write sci-fi books, even screenplays for comedic shows/films, or get heavily involved in the Pop Art movement of the '60's, like Andy Warhol. I can imagine him starting his career like this and then going on to become a teacher.

🙈 Todd

I would love to see Todd become a therapist or a councillor as an adult. Considering his own struggles growing up, and also Neil's, I think he'd want to rectify those mistakes of his past by supporting the kids of the future - maybe he'd pioneer having councillors in private schools, because Lord knows he could have done with one. On the other hand, Todd's confirmed talent combined with his anxiousness could lead him to becoming a reclusive poet either. Unlike Knox (more on him later), Todd wouldn't have a 'normal' job that he abandons to focus on his poetry - poetry would be his life, and he would spend every hour writing it, even if he never sold a single piece, a la Vincent van Gogh (Keating would 100% buy anything he put out though).

🧍‍♂️Pitts

Please, God, let this man become a radio show host. Sure, he's shy, but he's clever and he's dedicated. He co-designed and made a radio with Meeks; once it was working they connected 'Radio Free America', and the boy was thrilled. So, I can see him getting on some 'pirate radio' or 'free radio' station in the Summer of Love in the 60's, broadcasting illegally and secretly. If being a radio personality doesnt work out, I think he would become a scientist of some kind, creating new inventions and trying to make lives better.

🤓 Meeks

I'm visualising Meeks as an archaeologist. I love the idea of this guy on a dig, dusting off discoveries, and using his ace language skills to translate whatever's found on them. I think that kind of career would excite him and put all his education and passions to good use. Failing that, he could easily turn his back completely on the education and values that were instilled in him, and 'seize the day' following Keating's influence - I envision him in a band in the 60's/70's. There were plenty of instruments at Welton, so I'm sure Meeks picked up a thing or two about guitar or drums, and he has plenty of time to hone his skills in time for the rock boom - personally, I see him as a drummer since drummers have to keep time, essentially staying in charge of the music.

❤️ Knox

Knoxious has a romantic mind and a unique drive, and I can see him putting that to good use as a poet. He's the only one of the group we see who consistently writes poetry throughout the film, and I think he'd maintain and cultivate that passion in secret throughout his school days and beyond. Of course, poetry doesn't exactly rake in the dollars so, I can see him becoming a lawyer fresh out of school, as expected of him from his parents. However, he would do this only for 10 - 20 years so he can save up plenty of money and start putting his poetry out into the world, and then eventually turn his back on law to focus on his art full time.

📚 Cameron

This boy would be the only one to make Welton proud. He'd become something that all the kids parents wanted them to be - a doctor, or a lawyer, or a banker. Something smart and safe and practical, just like him.

And Neil became a famous actor and lived happily ever after, the end, bye

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Was Mr Keating A Bad Character?

Mr Keating is a complex character. But is he a bad one? And I don't mean this in the sense of was he badly written or badly acted - BECAUSE OF COURSE HE WAS NOT - but was his character a bad person, most notably surrounding his influence on the boys at Welton Academy?

Throughout the film, Mr. Keating faces criticism for his unconventional teaching methods, particularly following the tragic events of the final act. At first glance, it may seem wrong to blame him for how the film unfolds. However, as a significant influence in these boy's drab lives, his teachings undeniably shape their actions. Does this responsibility make him a bad character?

Let's examine what we know of his past. Mr Keating says that he was a weakling in school, that people would kick copies of Byron in his face. He was not the kind of person he is teaching these kids to be - he grew into this person. So, this raises the question: Was Mr Nolan right in criticising Mr Keating's teaching methods when the boys were just 17? Were they too young to be taught such 'radical' ideas?

Of course, it takes a long time to unlearn a lifetime of lessons. But even a few months under Mr Keating's teachings drove Charlie to extreme acts, like slipping the article into the paper and punching Cameron (an uncharacteristic outburst for him, and from any of the boys. However, we have seen violence inflicted upon him) - what would he have been like under a lifetime of them? This change in Charlie hints that the boys need a healthy balance between the two extremes - Mr Nolan's strict curriculum and Mr Keating's free thinking.

(I would just like to circle back to my point of having seen violence inflicted on Charlie. It's only after this that we see him punch Cameron. Naturally, I'm sure he's no stranger to Mr Nolan's cane, but he's never reacted so violently to other people before. Now that Mr Keating is gone, Charlie is already straddling the line between the two 'lives' he has known.)

I'm in my early 20's - I remember how impressionable I was when I was a teenager, even though I believed I was so independent. A charismatic figure like Mr Keating offering an alternative to my drab destiny would have been irresistible.

But Mr Keating was smart. He must have known his teaching would have some kind of ripple effect, across to the other kids, back to their families - and that this would have consequences. In my DPS analysis post, I mentioned Mr Keating's face as Neil and his Dad drive off after the play. He's so absorbed that he doesn't even hear Charlie speak to him. I said that I thought he knew Neil's fate, and I do. Which only adds to this theory - he knew there would be consequences from his teaching methods, and perhaps he even knew how severe they would be.

So, if this is all true (and remember this is speculation of a movie from decades ago!), is Mr Keating a bad character? Not intentionally. He wanted to give those kids a better, brighter future, one that didn't rely or conform to society, wealth, or status. Presumably, Mr Keating has lived a life adhering to the lessons he teaches the kids, so he understands that living a free live despite the consequences is the only way to be truly alive. He knew there would be consequences, but I don't think he believed for one minute that they would be so severe.

Therefore, no, I do not believe the complex character of Mr Keating was a bad one. Nor do I believe that he was a good one. He was, refreshingly and completely, a realistic, rounded person with strengths and flaws - and that's all we can ask from our media, isn't it?

[sketches4mysw33theart]

No Such Thing As Ghosts

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A secret meeting with Henry Winter in a graveyard at twilight. What can go wrong?

Warnings: None

Also would like to add - I know ventriloquism is spelt wrong in here. It's on purpose!

Other Henry Winter pieces: To Indeed Be A God, Omnia Redit Ad Pulverem

“Henry?” I whispered tentatively into the quiet, purple darkness. “Are you there?” 

I always felt the need to whisper when we met on nights like that. To this day, I don’t know why. The only people I could wake there were the dead.  

As I stepped through the foreboding arch, rising up like a gargoyle through the twilight, and into the graveyard, I heard the clicking of a light, the clapping of a book shutting, the rustle of a thick coat, the snapping of twigs. 

“I’m here,” he said, from the right. I turned to the sound of his voice in time to see him, dot of a lantern in hand, emerging from behind a grave sculpture he was rather fond of, a weathered marble depiction of a cherub whose nose had long since eroded. When we were last there, that same cherub had been on its side in the dirt. Despite his admiration for it, Henry had refused to put it back in its place.    

“I wasn’t sure you’d come. It’s supposed to snow tonight.” He looked tired, particularly in that incandescent light. This, however, was nothing new.  

“I know. We’ve managed snow before.” 

Henry and I had been secretly meeting for months, almost a year. Our clandestine trysts were well considered, in far-flung places that no one, not even Bunny Corcoran, would consider searching. Henry feared the scrutiny he and I would receive. I, after all, was majoring in medicine. It felt like a treachery to our separate kingdoms, I in medicine, he in Classics, that we were in love. A war on time. Romeo and Juliet, kept apart by the fog of the mountains and the turrets of Hampden College. But never by the snow, it seemed. 

It was a funny night, illuminated by a bright moon but encroached with shadows, the threat of the oncoming storm. Still, it was just light enough to see the outlines of the graves around us, the one mausoleum of the tiny town, the eerie statues looming before us, faces turned piously in every direction as though we had recruited them as lookouts. 

“Someone’s been here since August,” Henry said, coming to me finally and rubbing his gloved hands up my arms. I didn’t realise I'd crossed them over my chest. “The cherub’s back in place. You’re cold. Perhaps we should go to my car?”  

He must have felt my quivering bones, even beneath the thickest coat I owned. I shook my head. Despite it all, I liked meeting at the graveyard. It was quiet, far away from the familiar, and, in a terrifying way, beautiful. Almost all old things were beautiful to me then. Henry taught me that, through the strange photographs in his books and his detailed monologues. He had a gift of bringing history to life. 

“No, I’m fine. Have you seen anyone around?” 

He scoffed. “Of course not.” 

This was the main reason we met there so often. Who on Earth would hike through the woods at twilight to laugh among the tombstones? Well, we knew the answer to that. There had been the time we held a picnic in the height of summer, when fireflies had flew through from the nearby river and Henry had managed to catch one in his bare hand, the night we spent in the mausoleum to satisfy some maudlin craving of Henry’s, the evening we’d played hide and seek (somewhat begrudgingly, on one of our parts) among the gravestones. That had been the first time we'd claimed the graveyard as our own, mere days after Charles and Camilla had shown Henry through the place after hearing them speak about it.   

The graveyard had belonged to a town, struck by disaster and long since deserted. Besides a looming church pyre and a few piles of rubble, it was the only indication that a town had once stood there at all.  

“Here, sit down.” Of course, Henry had come prepared. Behind his grave of choice was spread out a meticulous picnic blanket, the host of his book, another thick blanket and matches and kerosene for the lamp. Gingerly, I arranged myself on the it, leaning partly on the gravestone for support. Once I was settled, Henry stretched out beside me, arm pressed against mine, hand resting on my leg.  

“I missed you,” I mumbled, reaching over to take that same hand. He settled his thick fingers between mine and afforded me a small smile, nosing softly at my cheek. “How’s the new boy?” 

Henry sighed, a warm exhalation that spread across my face. “Strange. I can’t read him very well. But he seems the silent type, so I don’t see why he won’t get along just fine. Charles and Camilla are particularly fond of him.” 

“You’re not?” 

“No. He's so... quiet, closed off. He walks around like a ghost.” 

I didn’t say anything. I’d seen Richard, the new addition to the Greek class, fairly often around campus, floating to his classes and slipping into the rowdy parties. Ghost was certainly the best way to describe him. But I’d never said two words to him, so who was I to judge? 

With that conversation abruptly dried up, I glanced around the cemetery that protected us from our lives, looking for snow. There was none yet, of course. Just gravestones, cool and still. 

“Do you think this place is haunted?” I asked, ghosts on my mind now. Henry laughed scornfully. 

“Of course not. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“How do you know?” I asked accusingly, with a teasing smile. Henry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 

“Because how could there be? There’s no conclusive evidence of a life after death, and there is certainly no conclusive evidence of spirits.” 

“Didn’t the Ancient Greeks have a God of ghosts?” 

“Oh yes, Melinoe. Also, the God of nightmares. Far too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” 

 I stared at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Come on, you don’t believe anything happens after death?” 

He was silent for a moment, considering my question. “I believe... that our souls linger. Not on Earth, that’s far too ridiculous. But... somewhere. Julian once said...” 

Before he could continue speaking, there was a creak out in the woods, echoing through the silence. Startled, we both whipped up to face the direction. A hunter stalking down its dinner? A bird flying past a bare tree? Or... 

“Did you hear that?” I said, springing to my feet, holding back a laugh. “That sounds like a ghost to me.” 

“Oh, for...” Henry’s head fell to his tented hand, but I could see the curve of his lips.  

“No, no, listen, Henry.” I was smiling as I held my hand to my ear and nudged his leg with my toe. There was another noise. A rustle in the forest. Closer.  

I looked down to him. “We’re not alone here.” 

Henry chuckled. “There is no such thing as ghosts!” 

“I don’t know, I think we could be about to capture your conclusive evidence.” 

Another noise. Even closer. Twigs snapping, leaves rustling, insects buzzing, wind blowing. 

“Really,” Henry huffed, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. “How many times? There’s no such thing as...” 

Suddenly, another noise, a crash, like an elephant marching through the forest edge, and Henry fell silent, peering beyond the gravestone. “See?” I said, gleefully. “No such thing as ghosts, indeed.” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “No, there is not.” Then, footsteps, not loud, necessarily, but obvious in the quiet that echoed between the gravestones. Very clearly human. It was only when I heard it getting closer that I realised my spectre, corporal or otherwise, could present a serious danger to us. Two college kids, out in a graveyard, in the dark. Good Lord.  

“So, who the hell is that?” Henry finished, darting eyes staring uselessly into the darkness. His gaze flew to the lantern, still lit on the blanket. 

But, before he could stoop to pick it up, there were more footsteps, the eerie sound of a mumbling voice getting closer, like a radio being turned up. Henry’s spine was stiff, assuring the stretch of his shoulders and each inch of his height was obvious. Then, a shout, “Is anyone there?” 

I knew that voice. It was familiar, terribly so, but I couldn’t place it. A glance at Henry told me he knew it too, but seemingly better than me. 

“Oh God.” He had gone white, all the colour sapped from his cheeks in the flutter of my eyelashes. Instantly, I was on edge. 

“What?” I whispered. “What is it?” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed listlessly as he swallowed. “It’s Bunny.” 

Oh God. I knew Bunny, alright. There weren’t many on campus who didn’t. Loud, ferreting, damn near insufferable Bunny, whose obnoxious voice seemed to reach as far as Fairfax and twisted mind ensured acquaintances either adored him or loathed him. From what I had experienced and seen, and the stories Henry had hesitantly told me, I fell into the latter.  

“Bunny?” I repeated incredulously. “What the hell is he doing here?” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “Get down,” he whispered, “on the blanket, behind the cherub. Stay down, don’t move.” 

I followed his commands without delay, happy to be told what to do in the face of this unforeseen upheaval. My mind was frantic. Of all the people who had to happen upon us, it had to be him. Now curled up on the blanket, cradling my knees like a child, I looked up to Henry, his strong jaw set, calm hands cleaning his glasses on the tail-end of his shirt. As the footsteps came closer, through the archway, and the mumbling voice bounced off the gravestones in awe, he was tucking his ruffled shirt back neatly into his waistband.  

And then... 

“Henry,” Bunny honked, his voice carrying so harshly it made me wince. “Am I glad to see you, old boy, I just got so lost on one of my little walks. These damn Vermont nights, hm? Creepin’ up on me. What on Earth are you doing out here at this time of day? It’s supposed to snow tonight, you know.” 

“Yes, I heard, Bun. I was –“ 

“You wouldn’t be hiding someone back there, would ya?” He knew. I could tell, just from his voice. “’Cause, y’know, I couldda sworn I heard ya talkin’ to someone.” 

“No, not at all. I –“ 

Again, Bunny cut him off. “Naw, I know I heard you talking to someone. What you doin’, taking up ventriloqulism, or somethin’?” He laughed, the squawking of a flock of seagulls. “What you got behind there, hm? Is that where you’re hiding her?” 

Henry protested uselessly, trying to mollify Bunny before he could get too close. I watched him step forward, presumably to meet his friend before he could get to me, then saw the red of Bunny’s hair and the glint of his glasses as he tried to see beyond Henry’s broad frame.  

“You brought blankets, I see. And a lantern. And-“ I saw no point in avoiding it. Bunny was leaning so far around the grave, trying to poke his head around Henry’s large frame despite the latter’s protests and fidgeting, that he would see me one way or another. May as well save everyone’s blushes. 

This time, it was Bunny that got cut off, by my face, no doubt paled and terrified-looking, rising up over the other side of the grave. “Hi, Bunny,” I said meekly. 

“Well,” Bunny said, stopped in his tracks. I could see the surprise glinting behind his glasses, the few cogs turning slowly in his futile brain. Henry, his shoulders still braced but looking somewhat relieved, took the hand I reached out to him under the cover of the grave. “Well, well, well. I’ll be damned. Henry and his little doctor, is it? I must say, Henry, I never thought you’d get down with a pill pusher. Actually, now that I say it, it makes perfect sense.” He laughed again, but I looked at Henry without even a smile on my face. I saw, with little surprise, that Henry wasn’t sharing in our unexpected guest’s joy either. In fact, he looked angry. Startlingly so. 

“Go on then. Doctor, doctor, give me the news. What’s the story between you two?  Y’know, my father always says doctor’s are charlatans, a load of crooks.” 

“Actually, Bun, I don’t want to be a doctor.” Henry squeezed my hand tight as I finished this sentence.  A warning, I realised after, when it was too late. “I want to be a psychiatrist.” 

“Oh, a shrink, hm?” Bunny’s eyes glinted maliciously, illuminating like hell fire in the cast of Henry’s lantern. He gestured to Henry. “He your first patient? There’s rules and regulations, y’know, codes of conduct. No mouth to mouth at those appointments.” He laughed again.  

“Yes, very droll, Bunny,” Henry said disdainfully. “Do you need us to walk you back to Hampden?” His hint wasn’t even subtle, voice dripping with annoyance, but Bunny did not, or refused to, pick up on it. 

“Me? Oh, no, I’m fine, I know the way. But I want to hear about you two. Has he tried to-?” 

“Actually, Bun,” I jumped in, trying to think on my feet under his scrupulous gaze. “I don’t know if you’ll have time. I heard Marion was looking for you earlier. Something to do with Cloke Rayburn, and a tinfoil package?” 

Bunny’s face, which had twisted into an aloof, non-caring expression at the mention of his girlfriend, fell instantly as I finished speaking.  

He dithered for a moment, fisting the edge of his thick coat with one hand and scratching at his head with the other, mumbling vocal disfluencies, half-baked excuses and nonsensical reasons why he should or shouldn’t go. These fell out of his mouth in a torrent, almost unintelligible. I glanced at Henry, but he was only staring stonily at our unwanted visitor. 

“Perhaps you’d better go find out what she wants?” I pushed as gently and indifferently as I could. 

Bunny threw his hands up, a surrender to a decision finally made. “Doctor’s orders.” He laughed raucously, so shrilly it set me on edge. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your little love nest. I look forward to hearing all about this later, Henry.” It felt like a threat. From the look on Henry’s face, he took it like one. 

“See you folks later.” And with a wave of his hand and a blur of sandy hair, Bunny was gone like the apparition I’d initially thought he was. Immediately, Henry sighed out a long, deep breath. Relief. 

“Good God, I’m never going to hear the end of this now,” he said as he slid down the gravestone to rest on the blanket. “Of all the people who could’ve found us, it had to be him, didn’t it? Not Charles, not Francis, not even one of your friends... Bunny.”  

“C’mon, he’s your friend, Henry, he would-” Henry shot me a glare, quickly broken by a smile as I stopped talking. 

“Oh, he would do that to me. To us.” he said, sighing as he took my hand and coaxed me down beside him. “Well, I’d been meaning to introduce you to everyone, anyway. Camilla will adore you, I think.”  

A spark of anxiety flared at the bottom of my stomach, but I refused to let this show in front of Henry. The Greek class always walked through the college grounds like royalty, simultaneously above and below everyone around them, who were awestruck by their ethereal presence or disdainful of the timeless coldness of their manner.  

Still, I’d had the same misleading thoughts about Henry until I met him, when he spoke to me with an open air I had originally thought was beneath him. I knew meeting his classmates would have had to happen some day.  

“Look,” Henry said, startling me out of my worry. I glanced at him, still, stoic, carved like a great Greek statue, staring up into the dark shadows of the trees swaying in the breeze. “It’s snowing.” 

It was. Finally. Flakes as small and thin as dust were beginning to fall, catching in the sparse leaves and landing quietly on the headstones around us. The graveyard and the forest were completely silent once more, slowly sprinkling with snow.  

“Come on,” Henry said. “Stay with me tonight.” 

[sketches4mysw33theart]

The Damning Debutante

Felix Fickelgruber Story: A sequel to Secret Fantasy

Title: The Damning Debutante

Synopsis: After your brother's plan accidentally sent you into the arms of his enemy, you and Felix Fickelgruber have only grown closer. So close that he invites you to a debutante ball... and who do you end up meeting there?

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: None

Debutante Ball - An avenue through which to present young women eligible for marriage to prospective high-society partners. 

Trouble had always seemed to love latching on to you. You’d been in trouble when you were 4 and your mother had found you covered in the paint she’d left you finger painting with. You’d been in trouble on your 8th birthday, when you and Willy had decided to jump from the canal boat your family called home for an impromptu swim. You’d been in trouble when you were 15 and had sneaked onto the grounds of your best friend’s school just to see what school was like. 

But at no other time in your life had you been in as much trouble as you were with Mr Felix Ficklegruber. Thrown together accidentally by the plan of your brother, you’d gotten very well acquainted with Felix in the four months since you had stumbled into his shop.  

Every Wednesday and Saturday evening, at 5:30, you’d meet Felix outside his shop, just as his assistant was closing the shutters. He’d be pulling his leather gloves on, an umbrella tucked beneath his arm should the weather turn dour, a sour look on his face as he snapped at his assistant to get on with it. At the sound of your familiar footsteps, quick and slightly hobbled in your best shoes, his face would loosen into a smile, eyes coming alive.  

He’d take you anywhere you wanted on these weekly excursions. To the zoo, the Ritz, luxurious restaurants, museums, on glitzy shopping sprees. You’d seen the whole city by his side. 

Somehow, despite how much time you spent with him, you’d managed to keep your heritage from Felix. His was a life of luxury, of emeralds and silks. You dreaded to think what he would say if you ever told him you were raised in the confines of a dusty houseboat. When he asked on your second outing, by the lion cage on a rather reluctant trip to the zoo, you span him a sad tale of dead parents and isolation. It did the trick. He never asked again. 

You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little embarrassed about your childhood. Of course, it was full of wonder and joy, of glittering dreams and wants met. But it was not rich. And Felix was accustomed to rich. Your past was pennies to his gold bars. 

On the other hand, somehow, you’d managed to keep your romance from your elder brother. In a way, you were lucky Willy was so distracted setting up his business and now, gathering the money to start his shop. Right opposite Fickelgruber’s.  

Lord knew what would become of you. 

But the Lord decided to show you one Saturday evening. Felix had invited you to a debutante ball. Initially, you had refused, terrified. You did not have a dress. You did not have the social standing. You did not have the etiquette. 

But there was nothing Felix couldn’t solve. He had instilled in you the grace and stiffness of aristocracy through subsequent afternoon teas at gold-tinted hotels, until even you were confident in your once rough manners.  

And, with surprising subtly, he had bought you a dress. He’d stealthily caught you admiring it after deliberately leaving you outside a dress shop upon claiming he had forgotten something in his shop’s storeroom. 

It was long and beautiful, a deep green to match Felix’s accessories, and came with a thin silk shawl to drape elegantly about your shoulders and matching elbow-length gloves. You were shaking while you slipped into it, modestly hidden behind a screen in Felix’s office. 

As you glanced at yourself in the mirror, smoothing the deftly sewn material of your dress, you couldn’t deny that you were excited. To be seen with Felix Ficklegruber was to be seen with royalty.  

You’d told your brother that you planned to sneak into the theatre, lying about some ballet or other you wanted to see. He’d waggled his finger at you, but he was smiling, and sent you off with a wave. 

Guilt bubbled in your stomach as you thought of him, waving you off from outside the wash house, your culpable feet carrying you in the opposite direction of the theatre.  

But the feeling was quickly quelled by a rapt knock at the door, and Felix’s booming voice. “Are you ready, dear?” 

You checked yourself quickly once more for stray threads or smeared makeup, then with everything in place, you opened the door with a smile. “Yes,” you said. “Is the car outside?” 

“Ferdie’s just pulled up. You look beautiful,” Felix grinned down at you, taking your face into his gloved palms. He looked incredible himself, well-pressed and taut in his best suit; new hat perched carefully on his pomaded hair.  

You’d never gotten used to kissing him. He was strong and firm, confident, dare you say arrogant, handling you with a featherlight touch and yet commanding you all the same. He kissed you then, fingers pressing lightly into the soft flesh of your face, nose cheekily bumping into yours as he retracted, grinning. 

“Come on, then, darling. We don’t want to be late.” 

The car ride was tinged with anxiety, and you watched the large houses, marble fronted shops and silhouetted trams with your fingernails digging into the palm of one hand and Felix’s fingers running gently over the other. Felix had ensured you were whipped into decorous shape to get through the night successfully, but you still couldn’t help the ball of nerves bundling in your stomach. Like everything was going to go wrong. 

You looked to Felix, bottom lip clenched between your teeth. He was talking to Ferdie, thinking out loud about a new business deal that you were not privy to, and did not want to be. No doubt feeling your eyes on him, in his preternatural way, he turned to you almost instantly, and tapped the tip of his pointer finger against your lips. 

“Now, dear, you don’t want to do that. You’ll ruin your lipstick.” 

Obediently, you stopped. Suddenly, you didn’t feel the need to do it anyway. You were with Felix. What could possibly go wrong? 

Even when you pulled up outside the palace, its pristine white walls glistening in the dying sun, hopeful youths in black tie and long dresses sparkling languidly on the swept steps, tall windows offering a sensual glimpse into the opulence contained within, you found yourself unbothered by the towering stature that reached out to suffocate you. 

You followed Felix’s lead to a T. From the moment he helped you out of the car with a gloved hand to the second he apologetically left you to get your third round of drinks, you did him as proud as you could. You shook hands, you smiled, you danced, you listened dutifully, and you spoke when spoken to. You refused to notice that everyone around you was above you in every way. 

And, somehow, it worked. In that hall, you were an aristocrat. An equal. A somebody. It was gratifying, the thrill of a newly crowned Queen. Fortunately, the Queen herself was not present – the debutantes would be presented to the princess. In your heightened state, you thought yourself of the right standing to take her place. 

Felix ensured you were sat down and in good company when he disappeared into the mingling crowd. Your places were laid at a table amongst Felix’s business associates, most notably his infamous rivals Slugworth and Prodnose. They were amicable and polite with you, despite an air of snootiness that lingered around them, but their partners were much more open, engaging you in civil conversation even when the two chocolatiers had left. It was rather suspicious, you thought. They had left together. Considering they were nemeses, they seemed to get on awfully well.  

You weren’t sure how long Felix had been gone, but slowly the rest of your table partners vacated their chairs in favour of more pleasurable activities. Dancing, drinking, mingling. You didn’t mind. You had done those things already. A break would do you good. 

Or so you thought. 

Your break was interrupted mere minutes after you were left alone by an exalted shout of your name. Not listening, you didn’t notice you had been called at all, not until a hand came to rest lightly on your shoulder, and your name was spoken again.  

Oh God, you thought. This couldn’t be happening. You knew that voice. Of course you knew that voice. 

“Willy!” you exclaimed, meeting the eyes of your brother with a shock that you quickly tried to plaster over with a smile.  

He, too, had afforded himself new finery, and he stood before you like a grandee in the royal court. He was in a smart looking top hat and tails, a sharp red tie around his neck.  You almost didn’t recognise him; save for the leaky shoes he hadn’t bothered to replace peeking out conspicuously from the bottom of his fresh trousers.  

“Your shoes,” you giggled, pointing at them.  

Willy, smiling gladly at you, looked down. “What? You always said you liked them.” He was laughing, too, completely aware, you knew, of the ridiculousness, but unbothered by it. 

“What on Earth are you doing here?” he asked you, pulling the nearest chair closer to your side. Felix’s chair. You gulped. “And wherever did you get this beautiful dress? You look radiant.” 

He was admiring the soft green silk of your garb, running his fingertips through it like water. 

“I, er... got lost?” You said limply, and it came out as more of a question. A question of his belief in you.  

“On your way to the theatre? Did you stumble into a couturier's dummy by accident? Good Lord, Y/N, you haven’t... you didn’t steal it, did you?” Willy’s eyes were wide as he let go of the dress as though it had scorched him. 

“No!” you exclaimed, drawing the attention of several passersby. Blushing, you sank into your chair, and continued in low tones, thinking on your feet. “No. I borrowed it with my own money, to go to the theatre in, you know? But I got lost finding the dress shop and bumped into Elizabeth and her sister outside. Lucy’s being presented tonight, so they said they’d sneak me in here instead.” 

This was almost true. Elizabeth, a regular at Wonka’s pop-up shops and a lovely young woman, was, in fact, at the theatre. However, her sister, Lucy, a snooty, pinched-looking woman trying to marry above her station, was to be presented that night. You had seen her on your way into the hall, and ducked behind Felix before she could see you. 

Your white lie certainly seemed to fool your brother. He’d believe anything you said. There was that guilt in your stomach again, winding up like a ball of wool. How the hell had this happened? 

“Oh, that’s lovely for her,” Willy said, looking around the room to try and spot the young woman.  

“What are you doing here?” you asked quickly, desperate to avoid a run in with Lucy should Willy call her over.  

He turned back to you, eyes gleaming. “I was invited! Can you believe that? By the princess herself. Her footman’s been buying our chocolates, and it seems she stole a couple. And now we’ll be serving royalty, Y/N! How fantastic! We’ll have a shop in no time! I tell you what, I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate. You wait right here.” 

Willy sprang up merrily, skipping away from your protests before you could even open your mouth to say them. When you did, it stayed hanging, even as you crumpled back into the seat with a sigh.  

You watched your brother’s retreating back, the hypnotic swing of his coat tails, and tears sprang up in your eyes. How could you have done this to him? You arrived there on the arm of not only one of his enemies, but someone who had been trying to hurt him ever since he’d stepped foot on native soil. You were a traitor. A filthy renegade, betraying the blood pumping through your body. How could you? 

“Oh, dear. All our friends have left. How impolite of them.”  

And there he was. The reason for your treachery. The brown eyes behind your backstabbing. Felix sat down beside you, placing your glasses on the table. “I hope you haven’t been alone for too long.” 

You shook your head, pulling a smile across your face. He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen.  

“No, not at all,” you said. “Only a few moments. It’s quite lovely sitting here watching everybody.” 

Felix smiled at you. “Of course it is, dear. In fact, have you had the pleasure of meeting Mr Wormwood? Him there, with the hooked nose? He claims to have helped the formation of the Forty Thieves.” 

You stared at him longingly as he carried on speaking about this stranger, his words not computing. All you could think about was your brother, lost somewhere among all this unfamiliarity. All you could do was pray to whoever may be out there that this would be okay. That you could balance your two lives for just one night. That Felix would keep you beside him, to dance and drink and eat and laugh and hold hands beneath the crisp white table clothes and kiss behind the cool marble pillars. 

You would have sold your soul to Hell for this taste of Heaven. Perhaps you already had. Perhaps Satan was only taking back what He was owed. 

Felix did not hear your pleading worship. It seemed nobody did.  

“Now, are you okay here for a few more minutes, darling? There’s a little business I need to take care of.” He was staring into a corner of the hall, deprived of rich candlelight, with his eyes squinting menacingly. When he turned to you, his smile was fixed and eyes bright. “Although, I hate leaving you. Perhaps I can find you a conversation partner.” 

Terrified that he’d leave you in the care of a street criminal, you shook your head quickly. “No, no. I’ll be just fine for a few minutes. You go.”  

Felix lingered for a moment, a hand clinging to your elbow, but when you nodded encouragingly, he left you once more. The silence, or whatever silence you could cling to in that crowded hall, may help you to put things right. Though, how could you put things right?  

Why had Willy sent you into Felix’s shop? Why had you let Felix guide you into his back room? Why hadn’t you told Willy from the beginning? Why did you let yourself get in this situation? 

You sat there for minutes that dragged like hours, eyes dodging between the crowds for a sign of familiar bodies, mind chasing ideas. Perhaps you could tell Willy that you have no idea who Felix is and that you wanted to go home? No, that would never work. Of course Willy knew better than that. Conceivably, could you tell Felix that you were feeling sick, and he’d take you home right away? That could work. Or maybe you could sneak away while no one was looking? You were on your own, after all.  

You hadn’t quite decided what your next move would be when Wily called your name once more. He was ducking and diving through the dancing couples, a drink held steadily in each of his hands. You managed to smile at him, and he beamed like the sun. 

Meanwhile, the dancers on the other side of your table were parting as fluidly as the Red Sea, maintaining their rhythm even as they split into two sides. A smudge of green and purple emerging from the shadows, parting the wall of bodies like Merlin.  

Felix was approaching you proudly from the right, chest pushed forward, head held high. Your brother was stumbling bemusedly over from the left, smiling at you with your drinks held out. Whoops. Trouble had found you again. 

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Dead Poets Society: Some Thoughts and Analysis

Essentially a stream of consciousness I had while rewatching the movie today. In chronological order as I was making notes!

✒️ Charlie talks so much with his eyebrows

✒️ Todd is tasked with taking minutes of the meetings, but I don't believe we ever see him actually do so (although it would have been nice if he did)

✒️ Cameron looks so much like a fisherman when he's smoking his pipe

✒️ Cameron's distaste for Charlie (and often for the rest of the boys) is evident super early on (e.g. when they walk out of Mr Keating's first class and Cameron says "do you think he'll test us on that stuff?" And, when he gets shut down, he throws a very angry look at Charlie and the poets. This happens several times, but as far as I remember we never see Cameron retaliate.) From this, while I don't like it, I understand why Cameron did what he did at the end of the movie because I think he felt undermined by the others and he was considered 'useful' and 'smart' for the school

✒️ Also, I do not accept that Cameron's name is Richard Cameron, he's pulling a Zendaya and goes by one name only

✒️ Mr Keating looks so disappointed in Charlie when saying "Thank you, Mr Dalton, you just illustrated the point"

✒️ I think Knox kissing Chris at the party, while somewhat gross, is necessary to show that Carpe Diem isn't always the right thing to do, as is Charlie putting the article in the paper  - i think maybe Chris not ending up with Knox would have hammered this home, especially because she seems perfectly happy with Chet. Of course, Chet's response to what happened at the party isn't fair, but it is definitely what I can see a teenage boy on the high school football team in the 50's doing. Don't choke on the bone, Knoxious!

✒️ Is Charlie trying to get thrown out of school? With the article in the paper stunt, he must have known how serious the repercussions would be, so maybe already he was considering getting out of school because he felt it wasn't the right path for him

✒️ "You made a liar out of me, Neil" - Mr Perry, I hate you

✒️ Did all of the poets, minus Neil and Knox, really squeeze into Keating's car?!

✒️ Neils little face when he comes out of the curtain, and how quick it falls when he sees his father - he's like a little kid showing a finger painting to a parent who insults it, he just wants his Dad to be proud of him

✒️ Mr Keating's face when Neil drives away after the play - I think he had an idea what was coming

✒️ That zoom in on Neil's face when his father's saying "more of this acting business, you can forget that"- he knew, then, that his dad would never change and what he was going to do

✒️ I want the doorknobs in the Perry house, specifically Neil's

✒️ The first time I watched this movie, I was so on edge when Neil was standing in front of the open window, thinking he was going to jump, and when he didn't I was like 'phew', and then the thing happened and my blood sugar spiked way up

✒️ Mr Perry saying 'my poor son' - i don't know, it rubs me up the wrong way, he has a name, he is not simply an extension of you

✒️ Cameron isn't there when the poets tell Todd what happened to Neil

✒️ The lingering image of Charlie with a tear down his face is so beautiful

✒️ Knox just clinging to Todd in the snow

✒️ The comparison between the deleted scene of Neil and Todd running lines by the lake when it's sunny and Todd running towards the lake screaming Neil's name 💔

✒️ Similarly, the comparison between Todd not wanting to speak at all in the meetings, and then the deleted scene where he reads a poem after Mr Perry takes Neil away

✒️ Charlie not singing during Neil's assembly

✒️ Ave means farewell in literature, and Charlie closing his eyes when it's sang is beautiful

✒️ Charlie carries on smoking when Cameron's coming into the attic meeting - he either knows it's Cameron or doesn't care who tf catches him doing anything bad anymore

✒️ I don't think Cameron ever actually 'believed' in Mr Keating, definitely not to the extent the others did - he never called him captain, for example, except when he realised everyone else in the common room was, and air quotes the word 'captain' in the attic. So, it raises the question why he went along with everyone even so?

✒️ While I do somewhat sympathise with Cameron, that is one of the most satisfying punches in movie history

✒️ I think Todd's parents weren't that different from Neil's, Todd's dad is clearly very authoritarian from the minute or so he's on screen (and the fact that Todd signs the paper) and his Mom says nothing in his defense, but the way Todd mouths 'Mom' breaks my heart

✒️ In what universe does acting = what Neil did? All those theatre kids and their evil, satanic rituals, forcing our kids away from school 🙄 I hate you, Mr Perry and Mr Nolan

✒️ Todd's the last one to stand up when Nolan walks into Keating's classroom

✒️ Mr Nolan complimenting Mr Pritchard's introduction is so ridiculously funny to me considering what Keating made them do to it

✒️ Mr Keating's smile to Todd through the door in the classroom has the same energy as "All my love to you poppet. You're going to be alright."

In conclusion, I adore this film.

Robin Williams, O Captain, My Captain 🫡❤️

[sketches4mysw33theart]

To Indeed Be A God

The title has almost no bearing whatsoever on the writing, I'm just obsessed with the Dead Poets Society right now.

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A drowsy morning at the country house with Henry Winter involves a row around the lake, a breakfast picnic, and falling asleep in the boat.

Warnings: Google translated phrases, please let me know if these are wrong!

Check out my previous Henry Winter piece!

I awoke to a throbbing in my head, a contrasting harmony to the soft twittering of birds floating in through the open window. I couldn’t resist the groan that forced its way from my mouth. It felt as though my head was being split open repeatedly, like a misguided executioner was standing at the head of my bed and swinging an unsharpened axe.  

It was several moments before I moved at all after I had rolled over, my body feeling scarily heavy yet weightless at the same time. I had little desire to so much as breathe manually, let alone open my eyes and face the merciless joy of the sunlight.  

As I lay there, eyes closed firmly, hands grasping the thin silk duvet, flashes of the previous night came to me as though through a camera’s lens.  

The dinner, a large affair to mourn the passing of the twin’s beloved dog. The wine sloshing in the Abernathy’s prized crystal wine glasses. Those same glasses raised in multiple toasts and clinking together like blood-soaked moths in the candlelight. Charles at the piano playing melodies of sweet summers past. The bottle of Bourbon passed between us without a care for tumblers. Francis plucking Camilla from the armchair she had curled herself up in to stumble around the library in a clunky dance. Bunny’s face, lined with confusion and acidity, watching us all through rolling eyes. Richard’s reflection, gaping at the chandelier-lit room through dazed eyes, as I stared out of the window, looking for stars but finding only my own distorted face.  

And Henry, tall and proud and stoic and quiet. Him I could picture clearly, as sharp and focused as a still life portrait. He’d drank as much as us, more, yet he’d never fizzed over like we did. Only watched from the sofa as we exploded like fireworks, flashing reds and yellows reflected twofold in the whites of his eyes through his glasses.  

Then, me falling into place beside him, head spinning in dizzying circles even as I laid it back on the plush sofa cushions with my eyes shut, light popping behind my eyelids.  

Then, him whispering to me, the soft, cold anchoring of his deep voice, but either I couldn’t tell what he was saying, or I was not in tune enough to listen.  

Then, I was there, waking up in bed. 

I opened my eyes when the pounding in my head began to lessen, allowing the bird song to wash over me rather than suffocate me. The thick curtains were open, weak sunlight creeping across the oak floor and furnishings, lighting them up like whisky. It was cool, that early morning chill before the last of the lingering summer heat could settle in again.  

I watched the floor for several minutes, praying for my headache to cease. Of course, praying never did anyone much good. Henry would be disappointed.  

I didn’t have a clock in the room I stayed in during nights at the country house. Francis’s great aunt, whose room that used to be, couldn’t stand them. She felt they made her rush.  

Still, I could guess it was early. There was no noise. Francis wasn’t singing in the kitchen as he made breakfast, Charles and Camilla weren’t bickering meaninglessly in the depths of the house, Bunny wasn’t honking his laugh at some ridiculous jibe. There was nothing except pure tranquillity.  

I knew of one other person, for certain, who would be up so early. That was motivation enough to get out of bed. Still, it was a struggle. My body fought it as I sat up, pushed myself to my feet, scrabbled through my bag for clothes, and checked myself over in the mirror to make sure I looked presentable. 

Finally, I exited the room, closing the door with a soft click behind me. The hallway was quiet, eerily so, and I paced down it, focusing on the soft, luxurious carpet against my bare feet over the pounding of my head. 

On the stairs at the end of the hallway, Francis was curled up, still fully dressed, like a small child unable to stay conscious on a drive back from the beach, snoring obnoxiously and fiercely cuddling a near-empty bottle of whiskey. His overcoat tails were tangled between his bent legs, pale, slender ankles poking out conspicuously from his half pulled-off socks. In the country house, this was not an uncommon occurrence. 

I clambered over him, trying not to catch his limbs or face with my foot. As though sensing my presence as he slumbered, Francis uncurled his body, spreading himself out across several steps and out of the way of my bare feet. Smiling, I leant down to pat him gently on the cheek, careful not to disturb him. He looked incredibly peaceful, for once.  

I left Francis on the stairs, snoring in the shadows of the half-shuttered windows, and headed towards the library. There was a fair chance Henry would be there and, if not, I would likely spot him on my way over. 

As expected, it did not take me long. Henry valued the morning hours, the weak light illuminating the thick pages of his books, the quietness of a dawn tainted only by the songs of the birds.  

He was sat outside, of course, fully dressed, a suited silhouette through the ornate glass doors, a splatter of ink against the canvas of autumn. Although I pushed open the doors as softly as I could, his head shot up as soon as it began to squeak. 

“Good morning,” he said, with a smile. “Drink up.” A slight gesture of his hand brought to my attention a full glass of water and a sleeve of ibuprofen sparkling in the cool, creeping light. 

“Good morning,” I mumbled, fumbling with the package in my desperation to push out two of the pills. When I managed to do so, I swallowed them quickly with a large gulp of water, which I drained gladly straight after.  

Once I’d swiped at my lips, I took the few steps to his seat. Standing behind him, I rested my hands on his broad shoulders and bent down to press a kiss to his cheek. I caught the smile on his face, which did little to lessen the furrow of his brow. 

“How’s the translation going?” 

This question elicited a heavy sigh from him. “It’s all wrong, unfortunately. The verbs won’t translate well, and these sentence structures are ridiculously tricky.” 

“Boreís na to káneis éfkola agápi mou,” I breathed into his ear, bringing my fingertips to his sharp shoulder blades. You can do it easily, my love. 

He laughed. “Óchi ótan eísai étsi, den boró.” Not when you’re like this, I can’t. 

I hummed humorously, spreading my massaging fingertips along his taut shoulders. Spread out before us was the house’s garden, as pure and fierce as Eden, coming swiftly to life in front of my eyes. The sun was just emerging, lingering in the far east like God, watching His creations come to life as on the seventh day. Henry was watching it too, finally relieving himself of his books in favour of the glitter of the autumnal flowers, Gomphrena and Didiscus and Goldenrod. 

It wasn’t often I was up early enough to catch Henry on mornings like this. Despite our circumstances, we never shared a bed during our stays at the country house, primarily because Henry didn’t want to disturb me during our short vacations, or so he said. But also, because, I believe, he was rather shy about our activities around the rest of the Greek class. They knew, of course – we were never as subtle as we thought - but, still, there was something prudish lying within Henry. Or perhaps it was possessive. Not that it matters now, I suppose. 

“Let’s go to the lake,” he said, suddenly, startling me from my observance of a large bee bumbling its way drunkenly through a flowerbed.  

“Now?” I questioned, surprised. Henry enjoyed the mornings because of the quiet solitude they offered him, the time to be alone with his books and his papers. Things he valued even more, I think, than me. 

“Would you like to?”  

I was still sleepy, even more so after taking the ibuprofen Henry had laid out. Still, I could picture how lovely it would be: the drowsy, sun-laced walk through the dandelions and uncut grasses, the heady smell of nature flourishing around us, the somniferous sound of waves lapping at the gently rocking boat, the mesmerizing feeling of floating on air. 

“Yes,” I said, “I would, actually.” Henry was always confidently persuasive. Eerily so. Not that I would have needed much persuading, really. I just liked to think there was something magic about him.  

He sighed, stretching out his aching limbs as he got to his feet. Pre-emptively, he removed his jacket and folded it meticulously, leaving it on the seat of his chair. “Good. Perhaps we should take breakfast with us?” 

It was a wonderful idea, and we slipped back inside to prepare a breakfast picnic: a full bottle of orange juice, a half-full stoppered bottle of champagne left over from the previous night, a package of strawberries, a selection of pastries bought from Camilla’s favourite bakery on our way to the country house the previous morning, and a packet of large blueberry muffins.  

With our breakfast packed in an old wicker basket, we set off into the morning sun, meandering through the budding flowers and tall grasses, clasped arm in arm. It wasn’t a particularly long walk to the lake, but we lingered meaninglessly on the way, I to admire the nature and wildlife, and Henry to momentarily relieve his arm of the picnic basket and watch me with a smile when he thought I couldn’t see him. 

Eventually, we made it, and eagerly hopped into the lonesome boat oared at the makeshift jetty, picnic basket still in hand. Considering it was so early, Henry was alive with vigour, and rowed eagerly, pushing us quickly to the centre of the lake. He had been somewhat withdrawn over the last few weeks, particularly during our days at the country house, so seeing him come to life among the falling birch leaves was a gift.  

We covered one lap of the lake at a fairly quick pace, talking about our latest classes, Julian’s theory of Dionysiac architects (which was, essentially, that the secret language they spoke was more akin to modern day English than any other language throughout history), and the startling resemblance that morning of the pond and surrounding countryside to Jan Brueghel the Elder’s ‘Odysseus and Calypso’ - one of my favourite paintings.  

Henry slowed as we began our second lap of the lake, and I watched his concentrated expression in the water’s reflection.  

“Aren’t you tired?” I was feeling a little peppier now, despite the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping gently at the boat, and I knew Henry had been up significantly longer than I had. “Can I take over?”  

“No, you don’t have to do anything.” I was still watching him in the warped shine of the water, and he caught my eye through the fairy-dust covering of birch leaves. “Just sit right there and look like you do.” A smile flittered across his face briefly, and I shook my head, laughing.  

“If you say so,” I said, still laughing. Henry rowed on and began to fill the silence with his stream of thoughts on Heraclitus’ ideas of opposites, and how the philosopher decreed Hades and Dionysus as the same God, a belief Henry was strongly against. Occasionally he’d break his speech to mumble a suggestion for his translation, which he no doubt tucked away into another corner of his mind for later. 

At some point, I lay back across the seat of the boat, head coming to rest on the lip, one hand stretching over to trail in the lukewarm water. Francis had said once that one of the neighbours had seen leeches in the lake, and Bunny always swore blind that there were water snakes in there. Yet, still, we all went out on it as often as we could, swimming and fighting and trailing our hands through the ripples.  

Listening to Henry speak tantrically and feeling the warm water kiss my fingertips was as delicious and satisfying as being carried in Charon’s boat across the rivers separating the worlds of the living and the dead. I wanted it to last forever. The best kind of purgatory. Psuche. 

But eventually, we did come to a stop, once Henry, with some difficulty, had managed to turn the boat and situate it towards the centre of the lake. I sat up and stretched, groaning at the creak of my bones.  

As I heaved the picnic basket up on to the seat, Henry balanced the oars properly, wiped at his brow, and rolled up his sleeves, eying the cutlery and plates I was laying out. He must have been starving.  

I looked to him to ask if he had any preference for pastries as I began doling out them onto our plates, but the question died on my lips when I saw a constellation of bruises flowering in a strange pattern along his freshly revealed arm. They were fresh, a shocking purple tinted with red. 

“Henry,” I exclaimed, croissant held in one frozen hand. “What in God’s name have you been doing?” 

He furrowed his brows at me, following my eye line quickly. I saw him flounder for a moment, but in a flash, he was as composed as the Queen’s Guard.  

“Don’t fuss, it’s nothing. I fell in the garden yesterday morning, those damn dogs left more garbage on my front path. Is that for me?” 

I believed him, of course. It was a perfectly sensible answer, and certainly not the first time something like that had happened. If only I’d known... 

I gave him the croissant, and finished plating up the food as he poured two Mimosas into the old teacups we’d packed, using far more champagne than orange juice. We ate in a comfortable silence, broken sporadically by random thoughts and anecdotes; we were both slipping into fatigue once more now the sun was fully risen, not too warm against our skin, and the inebriating smells of flowers and the birch trees were reaching out to us, woody and smoky like winter night’s gone by.  

Four Mimosa’s later (between us), we had finished our breakfast, and were lying, nearly unconscious, in the boat, which was very slowly bobbing its own way around the lake once more. Henry was stretched out completely, arms acting as a pillow, and I was tucked in on my side next to him, resting my head on the broad stretch between his shoulder and chest. 

God knows how long we stayed there in the boat, moving listlessly without direction or need, bumping lightly against the bank until one of us made the effort to lift a foot and push us away, listening to the birds' tweet and fly above us, feeling the gentle caress of the birch leaves across her skin, hearing the soft intermingling of our breaths just over the gently lapping water as it granted us passage, seeing the shades of light and dark through the shield of our eyelids. Zoe. The divine life of God. 

When we were roused, the air, the very nature around us felt different, alive, charged. The sun was crawling towards the centre of the sky, but several dark clouds were on its heels. Hours must have passed.  

I came back to life first, awaking as though from death’s sleep, drowsy and confused. What came to me, however, was the distant call of my name, the familiar cadence of the voice. Francis. It was Francis.  

As his shouting got closer and slightly more frantic, I pushed myself up with one hand braced against the smooth wood of the boat’s sole, using the other to first wipe the sleep from my eyes and then shield them from the sun.  

Francis was on the far bank, heading towards the small jetty, and waving his arms as though welcoming in a plane. He was, I noticed with some amusement, still wearing the same clothes he was in when I’d stepped over him that morning. I waved my free hand at him, and he shouted my name again. “Are you insane? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Is Henry with you? It’s gone 12, you know.” 

I couldn’t muster up the energy to respond to him, but I did lay a hand on Henry’s shoulder to shake him awake. With a bit of resistance, he came to, and sat up in the same sluggish manner as me, stretching out his arms, back, and neck. 

Francis called to him now. “Henry? Henry! Bring the damn boat in, will you? Julian’s coming to dinner tonight, and I need everything to be ready.” 

Henry waved his fingers at him, a dismissive acknowledgement, a king sending away a disobedient courtier. Finally, he opened his eyes, landing his gaze directly on me. He smiled, pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth so quickly I did not have time to respond. “Piso ston politismó,” he said lowly, a melancholy look setting in his features. Back to civilization.  

He situated himself carefully on the seat while I stayed where I was watching him like I was at the feet of one the post-Socratics. He picked up the oars once more and started rowing us back to bios. Back to life. 

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Secret Fantasy

Title:  Secret Fantasy  Synopsis: Your brother, Willy Wonka, sends you on a mission to discover as much as you can about Mr Felix Fickelgruber and his shop. However, when you meet the man himself, you discover much more than you bargained for.   Word Count: 1.8k  Warnings: None 

Yes, I am still alive, but is the fandom? 🫠 

Finally made a part two!

“Okay, Y/N,” your brother’s words echoed in your psyche. “Once you’re in Fickelgruber’s shop, play like a wealthy customer, like you’re there to buy his entire shop, yes? He’ll notice you soon enough, then you can ask him about his chocolates, his upcoming plans, all of it. Anything you see, anything he says, try and remember. Chocolates, flavours, shapes, packaging, all of it! It’s risky, I know, but you can do it, I know you can. Okay?” 

But, bathed in the soft, green light of the infamous chocolate shop, surrounded by plush velvets and lush silks, it was easy to lose your grip on sanity. You stood, stunned, in the centre of this corner of paradise like a boat lost out at sea, bobbing listlessly against waves it has no strength to fight.  

Overwhelmed by endless coloured boxes and paper-wrapped concoctions, you weren’t sure where to look. So, your attention bounced over each shelf and colour and texture as quickly as pinballs spinning in the dazed universe of their machine. You were used to chocolate, naturally, and you had confidence that nothing could compare to the tiny miracles that your brother could produce. However, seeing a real shop, so many types of confectionaries deliberately put together and dressed up to entice passers-by to dip into their pockets – it was an entirely new realm for you.  

Of course, it did not take too long for you to get noticed. Dressed up in the new finery your brother had dipped into his quickly growing stash of chocolate-selling money to kindly purchase for you, which itched your wrists at the cuffs and made a satisfying swish noise whenever you turned, it was admittedly hard not to notice you. You looked as though you had strolled into new money and built a throne of sovereigns from the petty cash. 

“May I help you?” You were reading, with your mouth open in awe, the flavours in Fickelgruber's Fancies (one of his most expensive boxes of chocolates) when the refined voice sang over your shoulder, and you turned to it as though scolded.  

You were caught in the headlights of a face you had only heard mythological tales about, the face of one of your brother’s arch nemeses. The face of, you shamefully thought as soon you laid eyes on him, an extremely handsome man. Frozen under his liquefying stare, you floundered, your boat taking on water as you stuttered, trying to find your footing in this strange, golden world.  

Somehow, you thought focusing on the handsome man responsible for your drowning (and much more besides) would carry you safely back to steady ground. He was wiry, tall, and immaculately presented, from the perfectly waxed shape of his hair to the shined-clean sparkle of his shoe tips. His accent was as plummy as the colour of his matching tie and handkerchief, but he had a nice, if a little strained, smile on his face. Rather more than nice, you thought.  

As you stared at him, watching the corners of his lips rise in a coy, roguish smile, sense boomeranged back into your brain in the guise of your brother. Play like a wealthy customer, like you’re there to buy his entire shop. 

“Er, yes, actually, I think you can, Mr Fickelgruber.” Finally, your voice came back to you, and with it the confidence and bald-faced mania your brother had instilled in you long ago; the tools needed to get your job done. What you didn’t notice, however, was your instant use of his name and the gratified expression that illuminated his face as soon as you addressed him by it.  

“These fancies,” you pointed somewhat redundantly to the lush green box, hoping it would disguise the quiver in your voice as you recovered, “there are no cherry flavours. That simply won’t do.” 

To your surprise, he smiled again. “Oh, you’re absolutely right. It is a travesty, isn’t it? I was saying the same thing to my wretched assistant only yesterday. May I suggest you try these instead?”    

He reached easily over your head, pulling from a higher shelf a sleek black box emblazoned with an egotistical gold F and stylishly held together with a single black ribbon stretched across the right-hand side. You were rather too distracted to focus on what he reached for, however, as you were overwhelmed with a strong wave of wild ferns (freedom, open countryside stretching out ahead under the harsh shards of moonlight), a rich, earthy scent emanating from his suit and the body it covered the same way his shop exuded opulence and his wry smile radiated superiority.  

Then, he was holding the box almost to your nose, as though he suspected you of neglecting your glasses; this only confirmed that you were not as confident as your attitude would project. Slow responsiveness, trembling hands, quivering mouth. His impression of you must have been that of a helpless infant. 

“These,” he began speaking when you gently lifted the box from his hand to inspect the contents listed on the side, “are my pride and joy. Fickelgruber’s Fudges.” His chest puffed as he shared with you the name of the delights currently cupped in your hands, but finally, your attention was diverted from your new companion. He was still talking, filling up the electric space between you with fleeting words about the concoction and how, although it wasn’t strictly chocolate, it was ‘the best taste sensation you could achieve on God’s green Earth’, but you could barely hear him as you scanned the ingredients and thought of your brother’s face.  

Your brother, you knew, was a dab hand at all kinds of confectionary, but he was never satisfied with his fudge recipe. Although you were supportive, neither, secretly, were you. There was always something missing. Not enough sugar, too much, the flavours don’t gel well, unappetising to look at - always something. It took one glance at the near-empty shelf above you to know that this was not the case with the man in front of you.  

His flavours were certainly unique, although as you read them, they seemed so simple. No yeti sweat, for example. There was cherry, as expected, but also salted caramel, mint, raspberry, maple, and a mysteriously named Fickelgruber’s Fantasy, an unnamed flavour with a top-secret recipe.  

Of course, you asked immediately, “What’s the flavour?” but he just laughed loudly, throwing his head back so you could see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple along his taut neck. Despite the face of your brother still hovering at the forefront of your mind, at the sound of Mr Fickelgruber’s unbridled laugh, your lips twitched into a giggling smile. 

“Well, if I told you that,” he said once he had recovered, a grin spread across his handsome face and hands clasped behind his back as he leaned closer to you, “I’d have to kill you.”  

He brought his hands between you to grasp the box you were still holding, slipping off the ribbon with ease and lifting off the lid. “I believe I can spare a few of these to tantalise your tastebuds, however. Here,” he held up a perfect cube of mouth-watering fudge, covered with a delicate strip of chocolate and dotted with what looked like either marshmallow or biscuit. “Try my fantasies for yourself.”  

He quirked up an eyebrow as he held the fudge out to you between his forefinger and thumb, only an extension of his one-sided smirk. You looked up from the piece of confectionary to his face for a mere second before opening your mouth and allowing him to place it onto your awaiting tongue.  

It was like a slice of heaven, melting in your mouth as soft and supple as the rich cocoa butter your brother had traded a silk scarf for in India and allowed you to dip your finger in as he made his chocolate after days of denying you the privilege. Fickelgruber’s Fudge had that same kind of forbidden luxury in its flavour, rich and decadent. That addition of biscuit – it was definitely biscuit, you recognised as soon as it touched your taste buds – only emphasized the beauty of the bite, giving the chewy texture a gritty crunch.   

If Fickelgruber was smiling with pride before, he was beaming with it now, watching your eyes light up as the taste of his well-kept recipe coated your throat. “Good, no? And there’s your beloved cherry, of course.” 

As soon as you’d swallowed the secret Fantasy, he was holding up a square of fudge dotted with sweet cherries. Without question, you opened your mouth once more, accidentally catching the very tips of his fingers between your lips as your mouth closed eagerly around the sweet. You were too overwhelmed to apologise as he withdrew them without a care, too overwhelmed even to speak. The cherry was, dare you say it, even more delicious than his prided secret recipe, as sweet and real as cherry pie.  

You swallowed the sweet blissfully and looked down at the open box still in your hand as though it were a treasure chest. Your Pandora’s box. You weren’t sure if you wanted to eat them all at once or simply leave the box on a table, lid off and sweets displayed, for visitors to coo over as they pass, but never to touch. Funnily enough, as he spoke once more, it came to your attention that you were having a vaguely similar tug-of-war about the man who had been feeding them to you. Keep him to yourself, or hand his secrets over to your brother? Hmm... 

“You know,” there was what you could only describe as a smouldering look in his eyes as he stared at you with his undivided attention, “I have plenty more fantasies that you could try if you’re looking for a certain flavour.” He gestured around him with his hands, but your stare never left his. “My whole shop is at your feet.” After a brief pause, he added, “As am I.”  

Only for a moment did you hesitate, looking over your shoulder past the thick green curtains and gold rails, out into the plain beige and white of the Galleries Gourmet, the people gazing through the spotless windows in wonder as they hurried past, and even further out into the street, where your brother was using your distraction of his rival to share his chocolate with the world as he waited for you to emerge safely. 

Feeling like a traitor to your brother, a fraud, a betrayer of the very blood that was pounding in your veins, you turned your back to the outside world and followed the dark, swaying shadow of the handsome man who turned to look at you, eyes twinkling, eyebrow raised, smile fixed, only the once before leading you deeper into the crowds of the shop floor.  

Oh, you were in trouble.  

Check out part two!

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Dear Chef

Title:  Dear Chef  Synopsis: Willy Wonka receives an unexpected letter and, after asking you to read it, gets extremely excited about its contents.    Word Count: 1.5k  Warnings: None

You couldn’t find Willy. And that was unusual. You could always find Willy. He made his presence known wherever he went, one way or another.

He wasn’t in the wash house, pretending to work hard while his mind eloped to faraway places. He wasn’t in his room, pacing carelessly along the creaky floorboards, absentmindedly dodging the drip-catching buckets and mumbling to himself with one of his knuckles pressed to his mouthing lips. He wasn’t in Noodle’s room, talking the poor girl’s ear off about anything and everything his wicked mind settled upon. He wasn’t pacing the streets of the city, searching for vital ingredients or sharing his chocolate with the world; this you knew as the others were all still down in the wash house, playing cards for washing chores.

At a loss, you snuck back upstairs, heading to your own room to see if you could spot him sunning himself on the neighbour’s roof through your window, which he had been known to do on occasion – not that it ever made much difference to his milky complexion. However, you were stopped in your tracks as you turned into the open door.

Willy was there, standing by the window, a rakish splay of rich purple along the canvas of open blue sky, the soft curls of his hair shining in a chestnut glow beneath the streaming sun. The light breeze lifted the netting curtain as gently as breath, which stroked at the bareness of the arms sticking out of his rolled-up sleeves, but he was too entranced to notice. He didn’t even acknowledge you when you said his name.

Louder, you called for him, broaching the enclave of the room with lithe steps. At the echo of your voice, Willy turned his head to face you, an unreadable expression spread across the soft angles of his face, from his full doe eyes to his rolled-thin lips. There were bags under his eyes, heavy, foreboding, unforgiving, and it only added to the tension on his face. Immediately you stopped. “What’s wrong?”

His expression did not crack, but he swivelled his body to face you. “I got a letter, Y/N,” he said quietly, amazement tainting each inflexion of his whimsical voice. Emphasising his point, Willy threw up his hand, revealing the creamy envelope clutched in his nimble fingers. You caught his name on the front, above that of the city, but no other details besides. This letter must have travelled a long way.

“Oh, wow! Who’s it from?” you asked, enthusiastic but relieved. He’d seemed awful worried when you’d first walked in to find him there. To your surprise, his face did not lighten at your enthusiasm; if anything, it worsened, a crestfallen expression dawning on his countenance.

“I’m not too sure. I haven’t opened it.” He sounded as disconsolate as he looked, and you drew closer to him to take his free hand in yours. He smiled at that, his cheeks rounding and eyes illuminating.

“Are you okay?” you asked. Willy nodded, and with that smile on his face, you believed him.

“Yes, but…” A rosy glow spread across his freckled face, and he looked at you with his big eyes. “Y/N, would you mind, er… could you read it for me?” You gave him a gentle smile and reached to take the letter from his hand as you said, “Of course, Willy.”

The envelope was heavy and smudged with black marks and grubby fingerprints, with the shimmering red ink just barely legible. Letting go of Willy’s hand, you shuffled to your makeshift desk to retrieve a pair of broken scissors you kept around – it was surprising how often they came in useful.

Once you’d ripped open the letter, you turned to find Willy sitting cross-legged on your bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and chin balanced on his fists, looking over at you expectantly. It relieved you to see that the thundercloud had been blown from his face, replaced by its usual sunlight of ages.

Opting to sit on the floor, you leaned back against the bed, your head resting lightly against the chocolate maker’s legs, ensuring he could see the letter over your shoulder. Little did you know, he spent the time with his cheek pushed into one of his balled-up hands, watching his other run through your hair as soft and free as water.

“Dear Chef,” you began reading, leaning into his touch.

We hope this letter finds you well. We miss you onboard! It’s still tough at sea but we’re planning to make port near you once more, around March. Have you opened your magnifique chocolaterie yet? Will we see you? Hoping so! We’ll be in town in a few weeks. Look for us in King's Market – we'll be looking for you.

Sincerely,

Each person on the ship had hurriedly scribbled down their signature, sending their previous chef plenty of goodwill, and you read off each name diligently.

“This is only dated a couple of weeks ago,” you commented enthusiastically as you finished the letter, giving the scattered handwriting a quick final once over. “You’ll be able to see your shipmates again, Willy!”

You leant your head back to look up at him, where it fit perfectly on his lap. To your immense relief, he was smiling down as he stared dreamily out of the window, cupping your head in his soft hand.

“Yes,” he said, dreamily, “that’s wonderful.” Then, suddenly, he sprang up, unravelling his legs as nimbly as a gymnast but keeping his hand momentarily against your head to cushion its sudden release. “Gosh, so much to do now. I’ll have to wash this overcoat, clean my boots, make plenty more chocolate, collect some rose petals…” He continued mumbling to himself, some common domestic tasks and other ridiculously insane activities, as he raced to your desk and flung open one of the drawers, now alive with inspiration.

He came up with a pencil and grasped the smudged envelope, turning it over to scribble quickly along the back of it. You, now propped up on the edge of the bed and watching him with a fond smile, folded the letter up carefully as you spoke. “Willy, they won’t care what you look like – they'll only want to see you.”

He looked up at you with a small hum of acknowledgment, as though he’d already forgotten you were there. “Oh, this isn’t for them, Y/N!” He turned the envelope to show you a list of drawings of his to-do list – boots, coat, chocolate, rose etc. - finished off with a rough sketch of a shop, clearly labelled Wonka and surrounded by carefully drawn stripes and stars.

“If I want to get my chocolate shop before they arrive, I have to be in tip-top shape.” He tossed the envelope down and started pacing, twiddling the graphite pencil between his fingers as he spoke. “Now, we’ll have to start tomorrow, no, tonight, I’ll need to make much more chocolate, and we’ll have to be out early in the morning, plenty of city to cover. Where’s Noodle? She can help me, and I owe her a day’s worth of chocolate anyway, so I can…”

You were giggling, and that’s what finally stopped his rambling. “What?” he asked innocently, smiling, but it did little to stop your giggling fit. It worsened it, in fact, and as tears formed in your eyes, he couldn’t help but laugh with you.

“You think I’m going over the top, don’t you?” he asked when you’d both calmed into a silence of smiles and red faces, walking back over to you. Once he’d situated himself down beside you on the edge of the bed, he nudged your leg teasingly with his.

“No,” you said almost immediately because it was true. “You want them to be proud of you, and there’s no shame in that. But, we’re not going to get a shop overnight, no matter how clean you are or how many chocolates you sell.”

“Oh, stranger things happen every day,” he said confidently, but you looked at him with your eyebrows raised. “But I do think, on this occasion, you may be right,” he conceded with a smile. “Still, that doesn’t mean they’re not important. It just means that they can wait until tomorrow.”

As perfect a time as any, Willy yawned wanly, curving a finger somewhat uselessly to cover the cavern of his mouth.

“And that sounds like a good thing,” you laughed, as he smacked his lips, allowing his head to fall onto your shoulder. “Mm, I am rather tired,” he mumbled. With a contented hum, he nuzzled his nose into the soft skin of your neck, and you poked him gently in his side.

“It’s mid-afternoon, Willy, we are not sleeping.” Undeterred, he snuck his arms around your waist, snuggling in closer to the heat of your body. With a barely disguised grin, you were quick to hold him back.

“No, but we can just have a little lie-down, right? Then I’ll clean those chocolates and make those boots and collect those overcoats and… hm, what else was there?”

You laughed. "Yes, the chocolate shop will wait until tomorrow.” At that moment, the cathedral bell rang across the city, four pronounced bongs echoing along the cobbled streets.

“We have an hour until roll call.” Willy groaned as you pulled away from him, but was quickly quietened as you ushered him to lie down properly so you could join him. “We’d best make the most of it.”

[sketches4mysw33theart]

That Henry piece was lovely <3

Thank you 🥺❤️

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Omnia Redit Ad Pulverem

Omnia Redit Ad Pulverem ~ Everything Returns To Dust

Henry Winter (The Secret History) Story

Warnings: Minor TSH plot spoilers, murder (ofc)

Synopsis: The murder of Bunny, from the eyes of Henry Winter's partner

It was quiet. Too quiet. We'd all heard the fateful thump around 30 seconds before, but still, we stood there staring at the edge of the ravine like rabbits poking their noses out of their warrens. Twitching in the silence, waiting on tenterhooks for the oncoming predator. Charles risked a look at Camilla, but her thoughtless eyes remained on the slippery tracks that led over the drop. Besides that, we were as still as a photograph.

Of course, it was Henry who moved first. It was always Henry who moved first. He broke the heavy quiet with the snap of a twig beneath his polished shoe, sweeping the tumbling locks of hair that hung over his forehead back into place as he tentatively approached the edge. "Careful," Camilla called, reaching out a hand as though to stop him. He waved her back without a glance and poked his head over the ravine.

For an infinite moment, Henry stood there looking over the edge, his body a mass of black, a tumultuous thundercloud in the otherwise clear countryside sky. With a heavy exhalation, he stepped back again and turned to face us all. He confirmed our worst wish with a curt nod.

It was like a green light for us. Everyone moved at once, I to place a hand on Henry's arm, Camilla to grasp Charles' sleeve, him to lean close and whisper to her in response, Francis to press his knuckles into his forehead with a loud groan, Richard to blink stupidly as though someone had turned on the overhead light in a dark room and turn to look at us all in bewilderment.

Only Henry remained still. He was staring ahead, seemingly at nothing, the swaying silent trees of the ravine's forest reflecting in the circles of his glasses, menacingly disguising the icy blue of his eyes.

The clearing was full of murmurs from the others, who were shuffling on their feet, tentatively making their way to the edge. I stayed by Henry's side, watching him curiously as he stared off into nothingness for a moment. His guarded face gave nothing away, and his shielded eyes made my guts feel like ice.

I wanted to do something - say his name, shake him, turn back time. But, I could do none of these things, and so I stayed staring at him with a heavy weight in my stomach as the others edged their way closer to peep down into the Hell that waited below.

When Henry did move, mere seconds later, it was as though someone was pressing play on a VHS. He sprung to life, immediately turning to look over the edge, his chin deliberately pointed, eyes glittering. Gently but with intent, he tugged me back with a hand on my sleeve, away from the edge, away from the grooves in the dirt where Bunny's desperate hands had tried to take hold. Staying where I was put, I lightly wrapped my fingers around his wrist, a little support, and glanced at the others.

Francis had gone pale and refused to get too close to the edge of the ravine. He made a show of poking his head over, but he couldn't have seen much and did not leave it over there long enough to see more. The others looked on with the same morbid curiosity that I'm sure was glistening in my eyes, but their high inquisitiveness pushed them towards the edge while the protective nature of Henry kept me back from it.

And, yet, he wanted me to go with him to make sure the deed was done. I knew. He'd turned to give me a pointed look as he'd mumbled the necessity for someone to go down for a closer look. But I was glad that Camilla was so ready to volunteer. She had a stronger stomach and a steelier heart than me. She gave me a fleeting smile as she walked deliberately past me, leaving a little pat on my hand as she went.

Instead, I sat on the dew-damp trunk of a fallen tree by the ravine's edge with Francis, who was cradling his head in his hands, glazed eyes staring over the infinite edge and alternately busying his mouth with a flaming cigarette and mumblings of woe. Being closer to the edge, I could see, with a sickening twinge to my stomach, Henry approaching Bunny, searching for a pulse, luridly rolling his head about, bringing to ghastly light the one trickle of blood on the otherwise unblemished face. Those same fingers that explored the spaces between my own so gently now prodding harshly at cooling flesh, the hands which guided me through crowded places and up steep stairs tightly gripping a fistful of sandy hair to move the head. Camilla stood several feet behind him, watching warily but maintaining a full view of Bunny over Henry's shoulder.

Bun's eyes were open, a glacial lake reflection beneath his broken glasses of the ravine, the sky, our cloud-like faces floating above. It was a miracle Francis didn't lean far enough over to see. Not that miracles had helped any of the rest of us.

With an unsteady hand and even less steady words, I tried to comfort Francis, but I didn't think he could even hear me. He did, however, hear the approaching footsteps as Henry and Camilla returned.

They didn't say anything in response to our flood of questions. They didn't have to. "Has everyone got everything?" Henry asked briskly after moments of pregnant silence, sweeping the clearing with his falcon-like eyes.

We all bumbled around the clearing for a few seconds, checking for any dropped belongings before moving back as one into the safe dankness of the wind-swept forest and heading back to Henry's car.

Although I had been privy to the rituals my classmates had been trying to achieve, I was wary of them. Not only were they dangerous, even in print, but they were also incredibly complex, with historical recounts that were sketchy at best. But, more than that, was Bunny's surprising eagerness to be involved.

I had known Henry and Bunny the longest of anyone from the Greek class, having met them both on our collective first day at Hampden, when they were introduced to one another as roommates in freshman year. I'd also had the incredible misfortune of being pulled into the Corcoran clan that same day, who had come to help their boy move in but were seemingly ready to do so themselves.

Now, I may not have understood much in the world too implicitly besides Greek and Henry's secret smile, but I could say for sure that I knew Bunny. I knew what he was capable of. And, more to the point, what he was not. As such, I had chosen not to take part.

Yet, when things had gone pear-shaped, as I inevitably knew they would, it seemed that I was the only person Henry wanted to see. The night after the murder of the poor farmer, after Henry had slept for long-lost hours, he came to me with thunder clouds in his eyes and trembling lips.

I'd sat him down with whiskey-laced tea and listened in fearful incredulity as he'd recounted, with alarming clarity, the events of the previous night. From the drive up to the country house to the gathering of the four on the moonlight-drenched grounds, the roaming through the woods like vengeful sprites to the eyebrow-raising carnality of events, the final, damning image of an innocent man lying at Henry's feet with his life ripped from his limp body to the unfortunate discovery of Bunny on Henry's sofa.

I was speechless. My teacup was twitching between my quivering fingers, untouched by my parted lips. As he drew to the end of his story, Henry sighed heavily and collapsed back into his chair, his elbows resting on the armrests but hands lost beneath my small dining table. His eyes were closed, nostrils flaring, but there was an uncharacteristic smile on his lips.

I had no comfort to give and, quite frankly, did not want to provide any. Not that Henry wanted it either, I don't think. He simply wanted someone who would listen and, in time, understand. That was how it always was between us. Henry may have been only a few leagues behind Einstein in brains, but I was capable of giving him a run for his money when the situation arose. So, we listened to one another, and we understood that, no matter the act, we had done it for the right reasons.

And yet there was no reason for what had happened. Not even any fault. It was simply an accident, albeit an unfortunate one. I asked him some questions, about the ritual, about the state of the others, about the possibility of a next time. We discussed the matter as though we were discussing classes the next morning or going over homework we had yet to do. With the calmness of an ocean, the conversation drew naturally to a close, and we then began to decide whether we should eat out that evening or order something.

I was worried that a headache may come upon Henry in the days after, potentially the worst he'd ever had. But, on the contrary, he seemed content with what had happened. Almost thrilled by it. As though it were some predetermined fate finally coming true. But, that was not the case with what happened next.

I feared from the first that Bunny would present the biggest problem in the situation. The police of Hampden town were bumbling cartoons, the teachers of the college slow and old, the townspeople confined and unaware of others. But Bunny was not. For all of his idiocy, he had a social smartness, a warped understanding of people that simultaneously awed and frightened me, but never more so than during those arduous few weeks. If anybody would sniff this out, it would be him.

And, of course, I was right. What I came to understand rather quickly, though, was that I didn't in fact know Bunny at all. Some of his reactions I had predicted - the anger, the hurt, the pettiness - but his persistence, his narrow-mindedness, the aim of his trajectory and the fragility of his mind I did not. I came to fear him, more on Henry's behalf than my own, and could barely stand to be in the same room as him, let alone remain chummy and nonchalant with him.

I knew Henry had a plan. But he didn't reveal it to me all at once. Only hinted at it, reminding me of the terrible things Bunny had done and dropping little lines such as, 'Don't you want it to all go away?'.

Eventually, though, it came out. Although I insistently disagreed with Henry's diabolical solution from the first moment he hinted towards it in my presence, he pulled his scrupulous trick of drawing me around to his side. Convinced me there was no other solution. It was easy for me, he said. I was not involved in the triggering murder, and I had an alibi to prove it - I was possibly the only one of us in the Greek class to have friends outside of the Lyceum, whom I had met in high school and moved to Hampden with.

And, as time wore on, I was able to reason, with terrifying clarity, with Henry's point of view. Bunny was becoming unbearable. Initially, the jokes were easy to brush off, but when he knew what had truly happened, he was like a bloodhound free of its leash.

Henry, whom Bunny blamed primarily for the mess, managed, in some strange twist, to avoid the heat of his petty wrath. Although it was Henry he was most angry at, it was everyone else who took the brunt of his emotions. It was only because of my closeness to Henry, I believe, that he spared me the misogyny he so delightedly dished out to Camilla. And yet, despite him not knowing I knew, it didn't mean that I was completely out of the firing line.

I found him popping up miraculously wherever I happened to be, trying, as I discovered later via Richard following one of Bunny's drunken rants, to catch me messing around behind Henry's back with an old friend who just so happened to be, in fact, meeting with Francis regularly.

Although he could find no proof, Bunny poked this sore spot like a red button, enjoying my furious rebuttals of his accusations. Not even Henry's warning voice or waning bank account could cease Bun's glorified barking.

At first, Henry had insisted I stay away from the ravine. A white knight gesture. I hadn't been involved thus far, and Henry stressed to me after another debate on the topic that he didn't want me getting involved in this either. I was adamant, however, that I be there by his side. I understood the gravity of the act far more than I believed he did. For days he argued and beat back my insistence that I be involved, until one evening after yet another of Bun's onslaughts, when I'd collapsed in near-tears onto Henry's sofa. Then, finally, did he relent.

And that was how I found myself walking with my head down and fingers tingling, away from the ravine on a late Sunday afternoon, feeling the unseasonal biting chill in the air and thinking, surprisingly, of nothing in particular.

My friends seemed to be having the same experience, walking silently beside me. Out of habit, more than anything, I slid my hand into the crook of Henry's elbow, a comfort in all hard times.

He barely acknowledged the touch besides a squeeze of his inner elbow, a Henry-esque reassurance. I clutched on tighter as the clearing in which we had left the car came into view, no longer illuminated in a weak spring sun but covered in cloudy shadow.

With Richard now in tow, I elected to perch myself on Francis' knee in the front seat. Despite a rocky start, we eventually got on the road, pulling mercifully further and further away from the ravine.

We drove back in silence, a painful comparison to the noisy car rides we normally embarked on, talking and tittering like children. In a way, it was a blessing. My mind was pulsing, and idle chatter might have made it snap.

I occupied myself with the window, careful not to block Francis' view even though he was distracted mercilessly chewing his thumb and unconsciously drumming the fingers of his other hand on my hip with his eyes closed and head leant back against the seat rest. There were warm lights in unfamiliar, welcoming homes as we drove past, twinkling scenes of families eating, playing, and watching television together, all flying past the car window in dream-like snapshots. I was starting to feel a little sick, but fortunately, we made it into town sooner than I realised.

Somewhere along the way, much to everyone's utter surprise, it started snowing, as though, in another torture from the universe, we were thrust back to better times - watching the first snowfall of the previous winter through the windows of the Lyceum, Henry and I choosing to walk, arm-in-arm, to school during the petering end of a snow storm, a snowball fight with myself, Bunny and some of my old friends, watched over by a disgruntled Marion, saying goodbye to one another before we all departed for our separate Christmases. By the time we got back into town, it may as well have been December. This did nothing for my glacial mood.

We all left the car at Francis', where Richard and the twins would make their way home. Camilla, Charles and Richard all left Henry's car with awkward attempts at goodbyes and shocked shivers and groans at the sudden fall of snow. When, finally, Francis had made his sullen way out of the car to reluctantly grab a bucket of soapy water and cloths with which to clean the car, brushing wrinkles from the arms of his suit as he went, I sat back in the front seat and let out a loud sigh.

It seemed a silly question, but I had to ask it anyway. "What are we going to do?" I turned to Henry with eyes that I didn't realise had widened, and he looked back at me momentarily with a vulnerable look that didn't sit right on his set features.

Quickly, he diverted his gaze, looking instead out of the windshield upon the flakes of snow that were beginning to fall at an alarming rate. I knew, somehow, that he was thinking of how this would affect his prized rose bushes.

Pragmatically, he said, "We'll clean the car, and then we'll go home." By home, of course, he meant that I would spend the night at his place. Home was no longer my pokey apartment in an off-campus Hampden building, not far from Charles and Camilla's place.

"But, Henry," I was staring now out of the window too, "look at this snow."

"I know." He was quick to respond, and for the first time, I thought I saw a glimmer of fear fleet across his face out of the corner of my eye. After a moment, he glanced back at me, and I must have looked some kind of state, because he reached over and clasped the back of my hand in his, closing his fingers over to stroke at my palm.

"It'll pass. We'll go to the nice café tomorrow, the one you like, yes?" I managed a smile, one that just managed to satisfy his piercing gaze, and he nodded. "Good. Look, here's Francis. Let's get this done."

Henry and Francis sorted the car with little help from me - I sat inside it watching with awe as the snow fell like a cinematic Christmas morning. Snow, of course, wasn't uncommon in Hampden, but in April? There may as well have been a hurricane blowing through the sleepy mountain town.

It was late when we eventually left Francis' apartment, after a long, anxious discussion on Francis' part and a troubled phone conversation with Richard. I felt terrible leaving poor Francis alone, but I was crazed with fatigue and his fearful ramblings and defensive arguments were elevating my fragile psyche into a paranoiac state.

In the car, Henry held my hand tightly the whole way home, an unusual (but not unwelcome) gesture. I stayed with my forehead against the chilling glass of the window, watching the condensation form from my breath and the snow, still falling steadily, with a numb feeling.

Henry bundled me inside quickly despite the thick darkness, and we pulled off our coats and shoes in silence. Neither of us mentioned the snow, the unsettled faces of the others disappearing into the night, Francis' trembling hands as we left him in his armchair, Bunny at the bottom of the ravine. Truth be told, I barely thought of these things. I barely thought of anything.

We moved through the dimly lit hall, Henry holding a lit oil lamp aloft to illuminate the familiar way. It threw strange shadows onto the walls around us, morphed shapes that danced and twirled as though they were teasing us, moving in closely and then dashing away as we came towards them. God, I was tired.

Henry left me in an armchair in his front room, momentarily in the peace of darkness as he moved to the hallway to collect another lamp. My forehead fell to my hand, cradled between my thumb and middle fingers which massaged the tight skin. I stayed there, massaging my head, when Henry came back into the room, placing one lamp down and lighting two others to illuminate the room. The candles were almost burnt down, I knew, but Henry didn't take the time to replace them yet. Instead, he came instantly back over to stand over me, smelling now of fire and oil.

With a gentle, firm hand, he gripped my wrist and pulled my hand from my face. Now lit by the ominous lamps, I could only see part of his face but, standing out like a thorn among roses, was the scar above his right eye.

I thought he was going to speak, and I watched him thoughtfully waiting for his words. But, instead, he kissed me fiercely, honey on his lips and fire on his tongue, hands anchored on my shoulders and forcing me into the chair, demanding me to stay. I took his aggressive affection and matched it, gripping on to his shirt with vice-like fingers and yanking him closer. He almost fell on top of me with his ferocity, only managing to balance his weight with the grip of his fingers on my shoulders.

Then, like water to fire, Henry released me as gently as he did not kiss me. "Are you okay?" I asked immediately. He took a moment, scanning my face with his shielded eyes, running the thumb of the hand he'd moved to my face along the bone of my cheek.

Bending his knees, he kissed my eyelids, then nodded curtly. Outside, a sudden wind was gaining momentum, blowing someone's hanging shutter back and forth against the wall, and I jumped at the sudden noise.

Unstartled, Henry moved his hand back down to my shoulder and said, "It's only a shutter. I'm going to get a drink. Would you like one?"

Despite my lethargy and the lateness of the hour, I stayed up with him, a glass of whiskey in both of our hands and the noise of the silence putting things into place.

We were quiet so long I thought Henry had slipped off to sleep. Or that I had, and lingered in some terrible dreamscape. My head lay almost flush against my shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, body heavy against the thick, worn cushions. The glass of whiskey was almost out of my hand, my grasp was slackening so.

Then, another gust of wind attacked, and the shocking 'thwack' of the shutter forced a breath of consciousness into my body. I was drowsy and half mad with tiredness, and in my state, momentarily thrashing against the sofa cushions, I mumbled Henry's name.

I felt him next to me, his leg mere centimetres from my own, the warmth and familiar smell of him, and quickly I came to my senses. Batting my eyes open properly, I looked up to Henry.

He was staring thoughtfully at his glass of whiskey, holding it up to the flickering light and watching the amber liquid turn into spun gold. He mumbled almost unintelligibly, "Omnia redit ad pulverem."

I stared at the side of his face, sharp and buttery gold in the soft light. For a moment, I didn't even recognise him. Then, the shadows fell back into place, the lamp's final revolution quelled by the fierceness of the strengthening wind flowing in through the open window, and Henry was back, the shutter outside silenced, the room like twilight once more.

He turned to me with a smile that didn't reach far. "Let's go to bed." With not a word, I agreed, and together we moved to Henry's room while outside the snow fell onto the unsuspecting spring ground, onto the rose bushes in Henry's garden, onto the colossal roofs of Hampden College, onto the budding trees around the town, onto the river that ran through, onto the yellow rain slicker and stiff flesh of someone I had once loved and who I would never see again.

I thought the fitful sleep I had that night, tossing and turning beside Henry, who lay awake until dawn with a book in his lap and his hand clutching my wrist, would be the worst of my life. As ever, I was wrong. There were worse nights to come. Far worse.

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Tobacco Tryst

Synopsis: Willy Wonka catches you smoking, and he is not too pleased about it. So, he plays a little game to get you to stop.   Word Count: 847  Warnings: You smoking (you naughty thing) 

(Please don’t ask me where this came from, I really have no idea, but thank you so much for the love on my other posts!)  

“You know, Y/N, I’ve been thinking -” The familiar voice of the chocolate maker was abruptly cut off, and you turned to see the cause with a lit pipe pinched between your teeth. He was standing in your doorway, dressed in his sleek coat and holding his hat tucked under his arm, staring at you with his jaw slack as the thought died in his eyes. 

“Are you smoking?!” Willy exclaimed when his throat was loose enough to release the words. 

You took the pipe from between your lips and blew out a cloud of yellow-tinged smoke. “Just a little. Gotta ration my tobacco, you see, with those two breathing down my neck.” 

Willy didn’t seem to care about that. “Y/N, you don’t know what that stuff’ll do to you.” He was upset, the pale pallor of his cheeks pinkening, the black of his eyes expanding, the timbre of his voice wobbly, distraught.  

Unexpecting of his reaction, you removed the pipe from your mouth in surprise and disenchantment. “Willy, you eat nothing but chocolate.” 

“That is not the point,” he said in an affronted tone. “My chocolate does not taste nor smell as offensive as that.” 

“It doesn’t taste -” 

He was quick to interrupt. “Do not tell me the taste of that isn’t offensive.”  

You couldn’t exactly lie to him. You remembered the first time you’d tried tobacco, stealthily embezzled from a wash house visitor looking to pick up their garments. It had almost knocked you sick, but Abacus and Miss Benz had happily blown smoke rings long into the bewitched night, and you couldn’t bear to leave that stolen moment. Once you had gotten used to the taste, smell, and feel of the smoke scratching at your throat, though, it quickly became something of an addiction, a secret enslavement that you laboriously enjoyed in the shadows.  

You shrugged your shoulders, and Willy knew he’d got you. Still, you puffed away, thick clouds of smoke escaping like fog from your lips. He couldn’t stand the sight of it. Watching you avoiding his gaze, picking up cluttered objects and making a show of pretending to put them away, that damn pipe still covering your face in smoke, a cheeky grin grew on his face as another thought bloomed behind his chaotic eyes.  

He waited until you looked at him again, which you did quickly as soon as he moved to place his hat back on his head. You noticed the innocent smirk on his face and couldn’t look away. You knew the face he made when he was formulating a genius plan.  

With your attention, he said, “I won’t kiss you until you’ve put that away.”  

Even despite his firm tone, you didn’t believe him, and you told him so, more smoke puffing from the corners of your mouth. Willy just shrugged, that damn smile stretching across his face, and you dared to test your belief, finally pulling the pipe from your mouth to clutch in your hand as you took the few steps necessary to reach his body.  

With his hands tucked behind his back, Willy turned his face upwards, so your pouted lips hit his chin. You whined his name, pushing yourself onto your toes, but he simply dodged your touch, now laughing at your feverish attempts to press your lips to his. Such a simple, innocuous gesture. An innocence that he was joyously denying you.  

After barely a few seconds, you gave in with a groan. “Fine, damn it, fine. I’ll put the stupid thing away.” You bustled over to the flimsy chest of drawers in which your clothes lay, hiding your sleeve of tobacco and, once you’d wrapped it in an old apron, your pipe. Slamming it shut, you turned to face your sweetheart, only to find that he had already approached you.  

With both your hands free, he took them into his own and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “Oo, although,” he said as he brought your twined hands to rest against your chests, “it does smell rather nice on you.” He brushed his nose gently along your hair, the corners of his lips perking up at your laugh.  

“C’mon, I’ve put it away,” you mumbled, tugging delicately at his lapels.  

He obliged quickly, pulling your face eagerly towards his with his quickly freed hands on your cheeks. Then, he was kissing you, desperately, fervently, like a famished man finally finding sustenance. 

“Mm, tastes rather nice on you too,” he mumbled as soon as his lips released yours.  

“Does that mean I can -” You reached behind you to grope for the drawer you had hidden your pipe in as your speech trailed teasingly off. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he said firmly, the coldness of his palms pressing quickly, ghost-like against your jaw. Even the strength of his hold couldn’t stop your smile from blossoming. Pulling a face at you in response, he guided your mouth back to his, metal to a magnet, and he wiped that smile from your face as quickly and naturally as rain on a window.

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Whisky Kisses and Chocolate Dreams 

Synopsis: You are trying to enjoy a quiet night to yourself when a certain Mr Willy Wonka stumbles home from a night out ‘testing chocolate ingredients.’  

Word Count: 1.4k 

Warnings: Google Translated phrases (please let me know if these are wrong!)  

(I’m lowkey annoyed that Wonka didn’t speak other languages in the movie, because of course Gene Wilder did and it would make sense for young Wonka to as well considering he’s just come back from his travels, so you better believe I’m sticking it in here)  

Beyond the happily ever after, the takedown of the fearsome cartel, the rearrangement of the corrupt police force, the arrest of the despicable wash house owners, Noodle’s family reunion, and the return home of the scrubbers, there was you and Willy. Through everything.  

You accidentally stumbled across him on the first day he attempted to sell his chocolate in the Galleries Gourmet and, as his chocolate plan grew, continued to bump into him in the most unexpected of places. From the moment your eyes met, and a sweet smile rose on his face, the smile he glowed with as he watched the chocolate cartel fly away, sent Noodle home to her mother, toured the ruins of the castle that would become his cosmic axis, you and Willy were thick as thieves.  

Since then, Willy had been busy building his mini-empire, including his refurbished shop in the Galleries Gourmet (which had quickly become one of the most popular retailers in the city) and the opening of his brand-new factory, but never busy enough to neglect you. Because he took you with him, into his factory, into his living quarters, initially as Chief Operations Officer, regular taste tester, roommate and partner in crime, and eventually into the most freeing relationship you had ever had the pleasure of stumbling into.   

Willy’s friends visited, of course, and very often, especially Noodle. However, it was Miss Benz who Willy was out with one night when you were allowing yourself time to relax with a cup of hot chocolate and the latest funny papers.   

It was late, but not too late, and you were sat in the armchair in your bedroom. It had been your idea to keep separate bedrooms even after your relationship with the chocolatier had blossomed, tentatively suggested over an early breakfast, but Willy was eager to nod and agree. He worked a very strange schedule, sometimes sleeping in late and others bursting awake at the first sign of dawn, and often not slipping back between the sheets until the world was shadowed in darkness. Despite this, when your schedules matched up, neither would oppose the other sneaking into their room at night. 

In your room that night, the fire was roaring in the hearth, battling the oncoming autumn chill, and you were enjoying the stillness of the end of a busy day. Willy had gone out early afternoon, and you glanced towards the clock languidly, not particularly worried. Willy may have been prone to getting himself into tight spots, but you had no doubt that Miss Benz would stand for none of it.  

Still, you did wonder where they may be. It wasn’t unusual for Willy to disappear for hours and then show back up as though it had only been a few minutes, babbling about a new idea or the source of a new inspiration. But these were usually solitary adventures – he enjoyed devoting all his time to his friends when they were in town.   

Before your twinge of worry could teeter and threaten to overspill into a pool of anxiety, you heard the distinct sound of the front door clicking shut below. He was always extra quiet when coming home after dark. He never wanted to wake you.  

Not that this seemed particularly important to him on this night. Because, not ten seconds after the front door shut, there was a mighty bang like metal hitting wood, some unintelligible mumbled words, heavy footsteps, and finally a soft knock on your door.   

Before you could respond, your door flew open, and in flashes of purple and brown, a familiar body stumbled into your room, exclaiming your name. You were faced with Mr Willy Wonka, swaying slightly on his feet with his arms wide open. “Hello, my love!”   

He looked dishevelled, his coat crinkled, hair a mess beneath his slightly dented top hat and shirt tails hanging out over his trousers. Heaven only knew what had happened to his waistcoat.   

You watched him with your eyebrows raised as he took off his hat, patted down his curls, and turned on his heels around your room.   

“Hm, where did the coat rack go?” He mumbled to himself. You did not have a coat rack. He looked at you, biting down on your lip to stop from laughing at the state of him, and a dawn of realisation rose on his face. “Oh well, I suppose this will do.”  

He stumbled over to you and placed the hat, at an angle, on your head, adjusted it slightly, and then patted the top with a smile. Once he was satisfied, he turned and fell unceremoniously face down on your bed. That laughing smile grew unrestrained on your face as you plucked the hat from your head and put it carefully on the table beside you. “Willy?” You questioned, and he looked over at you with glazed-over eyes and a dopey grin.   

“Mmm?”  

“What are you doing?”  

“Having a lie-down.”  

“This is my room,” you said, humorously.   

“Then why are you sitting there like a goose?” He rolled over onto his back so he could look at you properly as he patted the empty side of the bed.  

You were quick to cast the paper you were engrossed in only a second ago to the side and slink into his open arms. But, getting up close to him allowed you a sudden realisation before you could settle down.  

“Willy, have... have you been drinking?!” You asked, unable to hold back your laugh as you noticed the scent of alcohol tingling your nostrils, the dreamy mist of his eyes, the twitching of his fingers.   

“No,” he responded quickly, defensively. “Miss Benz and I have been testing chocolate ingredients.”  

“Oh, and what were these ingredients?”  

He opened his mouth, then hesitated before replying, looking beyond you in thought. “Well, we started with rum for these incredible bottle-shaped Rum Babas I want to experiment with, there was quite a bit of that to taste, then we tried some liqueurs, lots of flavours, the cherry tasted just divine, a glass or two of champagne for truffles, and then we sampled some whisky for fudge. And then, I... well, then I was here. Come closer, I missed you.”  

He held you tightly, pulling you into his sweat-sheened skin until your nose brushed against the tautness of his neck. With this closeness, Willy took the opportunity to press a dozen soft, quick kisses to random planes of skin on your face, across your nose and cheeks and forehead and hurriedly closed eyelids. You could smell the overwhelming scent of whisky lingering on his breath as his lips stumbled across your face, but he pressed them to your own before you could comment.  

His kiss tasted interesting, a cocktail of numerous alcohols and, of course, chocolate, but his lips were as soft and gentle as they always were. You hoped that would never change.   

“Oh, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” he started mumbling as he pulled away, staring at you with wild eyes. “Mon amour, amore mio, meu amor, qīn’ài de, meine geleite – hm, wait, that’s not right. Meine.... Ah, meine geliebte.” Although the numerous ways of breathing a new lease of life into the sweet name he had for you tickled you pink, giggles bubbled up in your throat and tumbled from your lips as unrestrained as the whisky flowing on your lover's breath. He looked at you with a bemused expression that was hurriedly offset by a beaming smile. “Why are you laughing?! I’m expressing my love!”  

You didn’t bother to even try and stop the laughs escaping your body, but you did fight through them to make your excuses. “I know, I know, but... nevermind.” You dragged the heel of your hand over one of your eyes before looking at him earnestly, genuinely. “I love you.”  

He glowed at your words, lit up and grinning like a child at the foot of a Christmas tree. “I love you too,” he returned the sentiment with quiet vigour, stroking two trembling fingers against the protruding bone of your cheek.  

However, the moment was somewhat spoiled by the obnoxious yawn he released, barely covered by the hand that wasn’t touching your skin.  

“Come on,” you said, nudging him slightly until you could peel up your coverlet, “let’s go to bed.” He was eager to fall under the covers and pulled you closer instantly, so the bedspread fluttered down around you of its own accord.  

Held tight in his arms, you felt the softness of Willy’s lips whisper at your hairline, an everlasting goodnight kiss. Before you could press a kiss to his neck in return, he was already beginning to snore.   

[sketches4mysw33theart]

The Concoction of Creativity 

Synopsis: You’re trying to teach Mr Willy Wonka how to read with little success, as there are plenty of chocolate-scented distractions stealing his attention. Inspired, you both drop the lesson to allow the creation of a new type of chocolate which, upon making and eating, gives Willy the inspiration to finally understand what you were trying to teach him. 

Word Count: 2.2k 

Warnings: None

“Oh, this just does not make sense,” Willy said exasperatedly, placing the stub of a pencil on the makeshift desk he was sitting behind with a distinct air of abandonment. Drawing a breath, you gave him a small smile, which you hoped came across as encouraging.  

“It’s not that bad, really,” you said. “Look, you have consonants and vowels,” you pointed to the two groups of letters that you had painstakingly copied out onto the blackboard, “and a Y and W, which can act as either or depending on the context. Now, there are 19 consonants and 5 vowels. In speech, the sound of consonant letters involves the blocking of air before it leaves the mouth, whereas vowels involve the opposite.” 

You had your back to him, drawing circles and symbols on the blackboard as you continued talking about certain letters. Without the pressure of your eyes, Willy was almost immediately unengaged, staring at the pencil he had harshly discarded for a moment before picking it up again. Lost beneath your booming voice, he said to himself, “This does look rather tasty.” 

The pencil was now balanced at eye level on his pinkie finger, and he was watching it jitter with his head slightly tilted. “I wonder if... hmm, Middlemist Red Camellia dew with a dash of pencil lead...”  

And, in as little time as it took you to turn around, he had the lead of the pencil between his teeth, gnawing curiously. Before you could exclaim, he took it back out again, and you watched in fascinated disgust as he pushed the minuscule chunk around his mouth for a moment to taste the lead, then swallowed without chewing. 

When you had decided to take over Noodle’s responsibilities of teaching the new arrival to read, you didn't quite know what you were letting yourself in for. The young girl had confided one day while working alongside you in the wash house you were both imprisoned in that the chocolate maker did not know how to read, and she did not know the best way to approach teaching him, so you’d decided to utilize your meagre writing experience and teach him the best you could. However, you were not prepared for the enormous difficulty that this task proposed. Not only could Mr Willy Wonka not read, but he also seemed to have very little motivation to learn how to do so. He did, however, have plenty of motivation and passion for creating chocolate.  

“That’s it, Y/N,” he said with a gleeful smile. “That’s the concoction of creativity.” And he was up from his chair and over to his travel factory, opening up his mini case of wonders in no time at all. He mumbled to himself as he shuffled through vials, dancing fingers hovering over liquids of gold and green and blue, until he seized one with sudden vigour. 

You watched him, shading the amusement you felt with a faux-disgruntled look. You didn’t mind giving up your time to tutor Mr Wonka (you didn't exactly have much else to do in the wash house) nor did you mind his frequent disruptions and outbursts; you were simply content with the opportunity to be ensconced in the sweet, hopeful presence of the chocolate maker.  

Still, with your hands on your hips, you put on your best teacher voice. “And do you, by any chance, have a chocolate that will force you to focus on vowels and consonants?” You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling as you said it, because the look of focus – downturned lips, wide eyes, bursting dimple – had taken over his face.  

“Ah,” Willy looked up from his ongoing creation, two small vials clutched in his hands, with a sheepish expression on his sweet face. “I could do a Ruby Remission – great for forgetting the naughty deeds of truant chocolatiers, among other uses.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh and moved to sit in the chair that he had just vacated. “Spare me, please. But I suppose we can take a break. What's the concoction of creativity?”  

“The dew of the Middlemist Red Camellia, one of the rarest flowers in the world.” He shook the vial he was holding in his left hand, which was half filled with a thick, red-tinged liquid that glimmered in the weak light. “I managed to collect some in China. Just a concentrated drop of it can stimulate the minerals and glucose of the body needed for energy and brain power, but it needs a little kick, a spark of imagination.”  

Now, he gestured to the pencil with his head. “If I can melt the lead of a pencil in acetone,” he said, shaking the second vial of clear liquid, “I think I could have the perfect essence of creativity to give the eater that hope of fantasy.” 

You were awestruck by his dedication, his methods of working, his inventiveness, and watched him joyously labour with rapt attention. He snapped the pencil in half and tipped out the lead into the acetone, telling you as he did so how the acetone would break down the lead into a liquid, ready to be sweetened and poured into the chocolate mix. Putting that to one side, he pulled the cork from the red bottle and lifted it to his nose to inhale deeply before holding it out to you. 

Distracted by the pencil lead bubbling in acetone, you didn’t notice the offer at first, not until Willy said your name with a smile on his face. He couldn’t help but enjoy how much you enjoyed watching him work. You too inhaled the scent, a rich combination of rose bouquets and candyfloss, tinged with a faint Earthy smell of spice. “Wow,” you said, leaning closer for a second whiff. “That smells incredible.” 

He grinned. “And with the lead, it’ll taste it too, I just know it.” He turned back to his mini laboratory to focus on his concoction, but this time at such an angle that you couldn’t watch his nimble fingers at work. Dismayed, you stood up and sidled quietly towards him, leaning somewhat disruptingly over his shoulder. At the feel of your presence, the closeness of your bare skin to that of his arm, the natural, if a bit soapy, scent of you, Willy was rather flattered; the idea that you wanted to be so close to him, to watch him do what he so loved, made him glow.  

However, your sudden closeness caught him somewhat off guard as he was pouring the dew into his machine, and the warmth of you mere inches from his body unconsciously made his fingers tremble, causing him to almost drop the vial. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you mumbled, thinking you’d startled him and taking a hurried step back with a meek expression. 

“No, no, not at all,” he was quick to rectify the unconscious betrayal of his body and sheltered the conversation from an awkward silence by stretching out the vial towards you. “Would you like to pour the rest?”  

“I- yes, I’d love to,” you exclaimed, quickly broaching the space you’d shamefully put between you to gently take the vial from his fingers and stand, this time, beside him. “Where do I -” 

Willy pointed to a built-in glass container housing a thin spiral tube on his side of the case. “Pop it in there, we’ll add the lead and a pinch of stardust nectar extracted from the Luna Petalas plants of the celestial pools in Delphi.” His face fell into a dreamy expression as you watched, and he cast it toward you with an expectant pause that threatened to turn your knees into jelly when you didn’t make a move to start the chocolate creation.  

Startled out of your stupor, you quickly leant in front of him to pour the red liquid into the container, and watched it slowly travel through the spiral tube. So close to your companion's body, you were drawn into his heat and overwhelming scent of sweet chocolate tinged by the harsh soap of the wash house and an unfamiliar earthy smell that seemed to cling on to him desperately. When you stood back up, you couldn’t help but make sure you were close to him. 

He stoppered the vial that you had handed to him, carefully placing the bottle away before picking up the acetone, which was now a light grey. “Now the melted lead.” He handed the vial to you once more and gestured to the glass tube with a wave of his thin fingers. You repeated the actions of leaning across him, overwhelming your senses with his scent, pouring the liquid in, returning to standing, and handing over the vial. 

The machine made a noise, a happy-sounding one, you thought, but you looked to Willy for reassurance. The smile stretched across his face and the twinkle in his eyes, illuminated by the soft lights of his travel factory, assured you it was. Still, in tune with your discomfort, he clapped to calm it before saying, “Perfect, Y/N! Now,” you watched his fingers dance across his numerous bottles again, “a sprinkle of stardust nectar,” he handed you the correct bottle and allowed you to pour it in. “And then we press this button,” he pointed to a square button beside the glass container, “and voila!” 

As soon as you pressed the button, the mini factory burst to life, a conveyor belt beginning to run until there emerged four red chocolates in the shape of the most fantastic autumn leaves. You watched in awe as each perfectly engraved chocolate appeared as though by magic, looking as delectable as you had ever seen any Wonka’s chocolate look. They glimmered generously, reflecting the absorbed faces of yourself and the chocolate maker in hazy, romantic shades. Once the conveyor belt stopped with four perfect chocolates produced, the mini factory fell instantly quiet and silent once more.  

Willy turned to you with a triumphant look on his face. “You just made chocolate, Y/N! Try it, go on.” He plucked one of the leaves from the belt and held it out to you in the centre of his smooth palm. You took it eagerly and popped it into your mouth. Instantly, your taste buds were coated in the sweetest combination of rose, honeyed ambrosia, and wild berries, with a faint metallic taste reminiscent of grapefruit on the cusp of ripeness. You couldn’t resist the groan you let out as you bit into it and swallowed the noisette-like substance within. 

“Oh, Willy, that’s delicious! It’s perfect.” He was going to respond, but you lurched forward and pressed a quick kiss to the smooth roundness of his cheek, which instantly erupted in a flush of crimson. For a moment, he stuttered around the words his mind had yet to string together, then cleared his throat and pressed on. “I, er – wow, thank you.”  

Sparing more of his blushes, you picked up another chocolate from the belt and held it to his lips between your thumb and forefinger. “Your turn.”  

His cheeks still aflame, he opened his smiling mouth and accepted the chocolate onto his tongue. As the taste spread, his eyes closed and he inhaled deeply, his jaw tightening and Adam’s apple bobbing while he chewed and swallowed. It was your turn to blush as he opened his eyes and caught you looking.

But he just smiled. “Oh, that is good. We’ll make a chocolatier out of you yet, Y/N.”  

“Well, I definitely think you’ve got the creative juices flowing. But how are you feeling, Willy? More creative? Ready to work through Shakespeare?” you said teasingly. 

“Hm, absolutely. In just a second,” he responded with a grin, picking up one more chocolate and popping it in his mouth. He swallowed it, stared at the final one with his lips rolled together, and then looked to you where you now stood beside the blackboard with an expression of surprise.  

“Mm, you know, I think I’ve got this whole word thing, Y/N.” You watched him with a hopeful smile as the cogs of his mind continued to whir. “Sure, okay, consonants are like cacao nibs, they bring certain notes and textures to words, so they have rhythm and structure.” His hands were gesticulating wildly, primarily in the direction of the final chocolate, but his eyes focused out of the window as though the answer to reading was just out of reach in the cold London night. “But vowels are more practical, like the grinding of the consonant nibs, refining their texture and making them smoother. So, consonants are the structure, they block air, while vowels are the essence of flavour, releasing air.”  

You were beaming as he finished his unique comparison. “Yes, Willy, you got it!” As though snapped out of a trance, his eyes darted to you, and his face lit up. 

“Really?”   

You nodded enthusiastically, stepping closer to him once more to squeeze his arm as you continued your encouragement. “Spot on, well done! And now I know how best to teach you in the future. But, I think we’ll call it a night for now.” You turned away from him to go about cleaning the blackboard in preparation for hiding it from Scrubbit and Bleacher, should they come looking.  

With your back to him, you could not see the moment of inspiration that flashed in Willy’s eyes, followed by a second of hesitation, rounded off by a steely determination. With lithe steps, he approached you, gently placed a hand on your shoulder and pressed his lips to your cheek before you had a chance to turn around.  

“Thank you for teaching me, Y/N,” he mumbled, biting his bottom lip nervously. “Same time tomorrow?”