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Lacking all the pomp and circumstance of his nature, Monty Burns entered Waylon Smithers' office. The tycoon's thinning hair was thoroughly tousled, as though he'd run his hand through it time and time again. An uncommon sight, to be sure, but sadly recognizable.
"Would you care to join me this evening for a drink or two?"
Waylon raised a brow. "I thought you had a date tonight."
Monty crossed his arms, leaned against the door frame. "Not anymore."
So, that was it. Waylon knew where this was going, and if it weren't for that knife of guilt gutting him he would be excited. But how could he refuse his boss? The last time he'd done so Monty was out of work for days.
"Alright, but I really do have to get home at a decent time. Evelyn will kill me otherwise."
He expected a smile or some sign of acknowledgement. Monty only left the room.
Waylon sighed deeply, knowing well he wouldn't be home while Evelyn was still awake. A part of him was fine with that; Monty needed him, and it was good to be needed. More was troubling him than this lost affection.
Waylon reflected, of course, that he was a husband and his wife needed him as well. It should have been a warning, that Monty needed him so incessantly, but he couldn't help finding it endearing. Monty Burns was getting old; he would need someone to take care of him eventually, more intimately than ever, and when Waylon thought about someone else tending to the old man's wills he found himself growing rather jealous.
When he wrapped up the remainder of his paperwork and clocked out, he found Monty in his office.
The tycoon was slender against the outdoor lamplight; a statue, ancient and aesthetic, glazed in the pollution of industry. He was so still, no longer part of this material world. What a wonder, that a man with a gilded heart could withdraw from his money, power and glory. Wherever he had absconded brought him no comfort, for he was aloof and strange. If Waylon had seen him happy for once in his long life, he would have been frightened. Instead, he approached. "Sir, are you still up for that drink?"
Broken from his gloomy enchantment, Monty turned to him. Waylon thought he was going to say something profound just then, something worthy of a timeless novel, but the reverie passed and he only nodded.
They stepped out onto the cold pavement of the parking lot, shoes clicking against it.
"Come to my mansion," Monty said. "I couldn't stomach the public tonight."
Joy, again. Guilt, again. "Monty, I…"
The tycoon's eyes begged him to continue, but what he wanted was a confession, some words that would cure each and every one of his sorrows, such that Waylon could never give him, even dishonestly.
"I'll meet you there."
"I should hope so," the tycoon said. "I don't know what I'd do, otherwise."
Waylon didn't go directly to Monty's mansion. He detoured to the post office drop box, then drove around aimlessly for a few minutes. There was no point in considering alternative actions; he had given his answer and he was as good as his word. Evelyn would have to wait.
Upon conquering the length of the driveway, Waylon was surprised to see Monty sitting at the base of the mansion's stairs, smoking a cigarette. He stepped out into the cool night and approached the tycoon as if he were a possibly rabid dog. "Sir? Are you alright?"
He put out the cigarette on the concrete stair. "What took you so long?"
"I had to stop by the post office drop box."
"That takes but a second."
"Yes, I drove around for a few minutes to relax after work. You know how it is."
Monty stared at him for seconds that seemed to last an age. Waylon understood what lay there, in the depths of his oceanic eyes; he had come to terms with it not long ago, in a fit of terror. He wanted Monty to acknowledge it with words.
The tycoon's lips parted slightly.
Rethinking his desire, Waylon quickly cut him off, "Monty, I… uhm…"
"If you can't finish a sentence don't bother starting one." The tycoon stood and spun about, trudging up the long flight of stairs to his front door. He paused at the threshold, hand upon the door knob. "If it pleases, you can return home, Smithers."
Waylon didn't stop to consider it again. "Sir, I'd be more than happy to drink with you. We both need it."
An apprehensive infection fled Monty. His shoulders slumped; no longer a tycoon, no longer his boss. Here and now, upon the mansion's decadent threshold, he was but a man. "We do, don't we?"
The halls of Burns Manor stretched into infinite spaces. Monty guided him to the parlor. From the liquor cabinet he produced a bottle of finely aged wine, worth more than what Waylon made in a day.
Monty examined the label where he stood, the cabinet door resting against his backside. The way his navy suit fitted his slim body so impeccably was a wonder. His waist came to a very fine cinch, and his legs were impossibly long. His dainty hands rivaled the finest filigree, and every movement executed was measured and elegant. He didn't belong among mortal men; the manner of his existence proved so.
Monty selected two wine glasses, plucking them up in his delicate talons and placing them upon the table before Waylon. "Come now," said the tycoon. "Remove your coat, make yourself at home."
Waylon obeyed and Monty followed suit, shrugging the navy jacket from his slender shoulders.
"You like to watch me, Waylon Smithers," Monty observed. "Oh, don't be ashamed. I love attention." He smirked slightly, baring those snaggleteeth.
Monty poured the wine, each movement the likeness of a dark seraph, beckoning him with soft flexes of flesh.
"Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Burns. Your trust in me means a lot."
"We're not at the office any longer, Waylon, you can drop the formalities."
He smiled. "It's difficult when you're the very image of a demigod."
Monty blinked at him. "Demigod, is it? Hm. That's a step below god."
"God, then. I only thought "demigod" rolled off the tongue better."
"What's better, to pleasure oneself or your boss?"
His face flushed red. "I couldn't say."
Monty handed Waylon his wine, making certain that their fingers brushed. The tycoon's were soft and cold. It was quiet here. The silence made him feel responsible.
"Monty?"
"Hm?"
"Do you ever wonder about other people, about the lives they lead?"
The tycoon became rigid. "That depends."
"I think about you a lot; your life. It must be so lavish, so freeing. Sometimes I wish I had such a life."
"You could. You've the brains for it."
He drank his wine, savoring the sharp cherry flavor. "No, I couldn't leave Evelyn."
Monty downed the glass in a few gulps and poured more for himself, taking a sip of his next fill before responding. "That's where we differ, you and I." He chuckled without amusement. "I was made to be the eccentric, surly tycoon to your tranquil assistant. That's life, I suppose. We are marked for our roles since birth. The difference being you were granted the illusion of choice. I've known what I was since I was a child."
"So, what, I was born to serve you?"
"Precisely."
A frown was embedded in Montgomery's face. He pursed his lips, deepening it. Tonight was for solemn resolve and nothing more. It was a pity; not because Waylon would rather be home, but because he knew what Monty was thinking. There was little room for mystery when it came to someone so uniquely miserable. Should Waylon depart, Monty would walk these halls until his legs could no longer carry him. If he didn't collapse and hit the mansion's floor, he would tarry into one of the rooms, dark and impossible. Rendered helpless, his sorrows would fracture him into thousands of tiny pieces. It would take time for him to heal. His scars refused to fade.
"Waylon," Monty was pouring himself a third glass. "I didn't invite you here out of the goodness of my heart. God knows there's nothing so gentle left within it."
Monty fell silent again. Waylon drank his wine. He knew better than to press, for Monty only retreat further into his shell.
"You're good company," he said at last.
"Do you think it's selfish to want good company?"
"I know you'd rather not be here." He poured himself yet another glass. "I understand that, I do. Some… some rich asshole drags you back to his mansion and you can't necessarily refuse because he's your boss. No, I… I understand that, I'm not blind to the power I have over you."
"I do want to be here. I have obligations, yes, but I'd rather be here."
"And for what? To listen to me lament? Tragic, isn't it?" He swirled the liquor round and round in its glass. "Poor Monty, poor rich little Monty, so lonesome, he can't even purchase friends."
"You don't consider me a friend?"
"You're obligated to do as I say. Would I consider one of the other nameless, faceless employees a friend if he did as I asked?" Monty paused. "You aren't nameless or faceless, of course."
"We're close, aren't we, sir?"
"That doesn't make us friends."
"I think we are. That counts for something, yes?"
A small smile touched his lips. "I suppose."
Monty shifted about, nearly spilling wine across his lap. The red droplets became one with the carpet. He ran his hand through his thinning hair, his face flushed. Waylon thought he might be ill since he drank nearly half the bottle so quickly.
"Are you alright, Monty?"
He cast his eyes to Waylon's, then quickly away again, but not before the younger man saw the reality of his intentions.
"Oh, Monty…"
The tycoon sighed. "I am… I am jealous, Waylon. I've never loved anyone, not really. I like to think that I have but I know better. I'm jealous of what you have, of what you are. I'm… I'm jealous of you. Rather I… I think I'm… I think I'm jealous of your wife." His eyes rested upon Waylon's wedding ring, the golden band reflected in cold blue.
He had wondered for a long time, and felt no offense. What was there to be offended by? A sad little tycoon thought him attractive. But he knew that Monty wasn't exactly ashamed at the prospect of two men.
Waylon looked at his ring and thought of his wife back home, awaiting his return. Was she asleep now? Or staying up, staring at the door…
"I should never have brought you here," Monty sighed. "I'm going to do something rash. You should leave."
He should, he knew. But he couldn't move.
The tycoon's thigh brushed his, one leg slipping over Waylon's knee. Monty slumped against him, the wine glass in one delicate hand, and the other…
"Mmh," Monty mumbled into the back of his neck. "I've never realized what a large man you are."
He had assumed Monty fancied him, he had understood it, but it was one thing to have imagined another man touching him and to truly be touched. Monty's hand caressed him through his slacks, his breath danced upon the little hairs of his nape, and rendered unto him a fantastical sense of want.
"Monty…"
"Yes, say my name, you're so very good at that."
"You're awfully soused."
"I know. Won't you drink some more? It'd be a shame to waste a cataclysmically expensive wine."
He followed Monty's suggestion and drank, refilling his glass. The tycoon continued to fondle him and kissed up the back of his neck, nuzzling his thinning hair with his long nose, taking a deep whiff of his scent.
"Such a gentleman," Monty whispered into his ear. "Your cologne compliments instead of drowning you."
"Thank you. You… you're also a gentleman."
Monty chuckled. "Yes, this is rather gentlemanly of me." But in a moment his jubilance faded. Monty rested his chin upon the younger man's shoulder. A depressed sigh ruffled Waylon's hair, chilled his cheek, but Monty said nothing. What was there to say when his eyes caught the ring and he was reminded of a breed of life he would never experience?
In an instant Monty tossed the wine glass to the ground, and there it fractured. His talons clutched Waylon's head, turning him towards him in a blaze of red liquor and blue vestment. His lips held a crimson promise he couldn't keep as they pressed to Waylon's.
There was more here than mere want, there was some sort of dismal pride; Monty was born to the purple and he would take what he wanted, whenever he wanted.
"I know I'm cruel," the tycoon whispered, drunkenly slurring into his lips. "That's my best attribute, Waylon. I know what I want, and so I take it. 'Rapacious' they call me; well, what a compliment! I know that, I know precisely what I am. And so I… I'm going to…" he seemed to lose his train of thought and kissed Waylon again to remedy it. "I'm going to take you for all that you've got."
Waylon couldn't reciprocate his painfully passionate kisses; that was more than he could excuse. Instead he put his hands about the older man's waist.
Monty released a surprised squeak, a sound Waylon didn't know he was capable of producing. It stiffened him down below.
"Is that alright?" The employee asked once he found his words.
Monty felt up his arms down to the hands clutching his waist. "My, my… you're so… h-hearty…" He traced the contours of Waylon's strong hands with his own delicate fingers. "... touch me?"
"Where?"
"Everywhere, every inch of me." He smirked, "Or would you rather return home? I'm sure your wife misses you."
He tightened his grip, wringing a small moan out of the older man. Whatever Monty loved about his hands was beyond Waylon. When it came to love-making he was a simple man. All he knew at this moment was how delightful it was to feel him; the waistcoat perfectly fitted and the white button-up beneath so sheer that the subtle warmth of Monty Burns rose to meet his fingertips. His hands glided up, past the tender meat of the waist to the solid cage of ribs. Monty was silent, only breathing as he watched Waylon unravel his enigma. The broad hands slipped back down, down to clutch his bony hips.
Monty opened his mouth to say something, but the only sound that escaped his trembling lips was a small gasp.
"Is that alright?" Waylon asked, so soft he hardly heard himself.
"Yes."
Braving a glance into Monty's eyes, he saw something bright and sharp.
"Are you afraid of me?" Waylon asked.
"Of course I am. You could break me."
Monty's gaze slipped past Waylon's, locking onto the fingers tracing his thighs and pausing at the opening of his trousers.
That's the trouble, isn't it? Waylon thought.
It seemed impossible not to answer the call of his blood. He was still, clutching Monty, ancient and primal beneath his hands.
His humble beginnings had troubled him; working a department store after classes. He had grown to love monotony, but in those bygone days of fresh youth it had been appalling. It had seemed so unfair that he should have to work away in a constant state of boredom, whereas his richer classmates could dally about and kick back with their dames without a care in the world. He had thought he was made for a life of luxury. Gradually he had settled, calmed by hard work and love.
This painstakingly carved model of porcelain in his hands made a child of him; Monty was all he had ever once wanted, a forbidden treasure once forfeited in frustration. The wealth promised him by the ethos of capitalism. To release the tycoon would collapse his individuality, the part of him that was only here because he was true to himself and not to his wife. A liar, a cheat, a cad. His heart loved one, yearned for another. Oh, blasted infidelity! But he was here. He was here. His hands upon the richest man he had ever met. Himself bankrupt of honor. In the end, true to himself.
Monty leaned forward and kissed him upon the brow. His eyes, worn and blue and blind. "Kiss me, love me. That's all I ask. That's all I want. That is all."
His hands slipped about his hips, squeezed Monty's rear, and he watched as the bulge in his trousers became prominent.
He wants me, Waylon thought with a twisted twinge of pride. Montgomery Burns, a cut diamond made flesh who craved the humble homeliness of his lackey. Waylon hardened further at the prospect.
Monty's kisses peppered his bald head, his face, his ears, his neck. "Please," he whispered into the common flesh. "Oh, please." His lips were cold against Waylon's blood-ripe skin, chilled blessings. "Why won't you touch me? Bastard. Must I weep? Must I… confess?"
Waylon clutched at him harder, clawing clothing more expensive than his wedding band.
"I love you," Monty whispered into his ear, cold as his blue, blue eyes. "I have for sometime."
"Don't lie."
"It isn't a lie. I've watched you. I've yearned for you, and now… God, I want you. I-"
Waylon slipped a hand about Monty's throat and squeezed, cutting the tycoon's words. "That's enough. I'm here, aren't I? I refuse to listen to any love confessions."
Monty clutched at his hand. Waylon didn't release him immediately. "You could break me." Oh, indeed he could. It required precious little to disable the tycoon. He was so petite in Waylon's hands, like a doll. And the way he whimpered…
He released Monty. The older man gasped softly and felt his neck. What's the matter with me? Waylon asked himself. Have I become a sadist? That wasn't him, to be attracted by another person's struggle. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what came over me."
"Do it again. Harder."
"No, I don't want to. I don't want to feel that way."
Monty huffed and slumped forward, lying across Waylon's lap. "Such a prude, I should have known. Wouldn't you rather be aroused? Wouldn't you rather be pleasured? … wouldn't you rather kiss me? Or am I that repulsive?"
"You're not repulsive, don't be ridiculous."
"I can't understand you. You come here, you put your hands on me, you look into my eyes like that… What the hell is the matter with you?"
"What do you mean? Monty, you're the one who invited me here and began confessing your supposed love for me. You're the one who kissed me."
Monty closed his eyes. "I know. But you are not innocent. Would your wife approve of this? I think not."
Waylon pursed his lips hard. "I suppose it must be so easy for you, having nothing ."
The tycoon turned onto his back and looked up at him, reproachful only briefly. He sighed. "You're right, I have nothing. Expecting moments like this."
"If you weren't so cruel…"
"What?"
"... someone might love you in return, if you weren't so cruel."
"Cruelty is all I have, I believe I explained that."
Waylon leaned back and Monty lay there. Together, as they often were, in oddly comfortable silence. Waylon watched the rise and fall of Monty's chest, took note of his wrinkled clothing. Beautiful. He trailed his fingers over the fine linen, toying with the pearly buttons.
"You know," Waylon said after a while. "Cruelty isn't all you have. You can be delightfully tender."
"... I do believe I love you," Monty said. "As much as I am capable. I… I know that isn't what you want to hear. Perhaps you should just go ahead and strangle me." A smirk pranced across his lips. He was only half joking. "All I know for certain is that… when I look at you I feel safe. Immortal, perhaps. I trust you. Do you know how difficult it is for me to trust someone?"
"I have an idea."
Monty regarded him anew. "And so, we are both afraid."
Waylon had never trusted anyone. Not out of paranoia, he was only never up to talking about the abyss of himself. There was plenty that was unnecessary to drag to the surface.
Waylon took up the tie about Monty's throat, tugging it loose and working free the first few buttons of his shirt. He bared the older man's pale flesh, his collar bone prominent against such gossamer. His fingers traced the contour of Monty's neck, down to the clavicle and up to his jaw, cresting the Adam's apple as he swallowed. So archaic he was almost new. This little thing, very alive, belonged to Waylon. Now, and only temporarily.
He leaned over and pressed his lips to Monty's pretty petals, fingers intertwining with the silken hair, bearing the likeness of a wolf's ruff. Monty clutched Waylon's bicep, his opposite hand at his employee's cheek. The slender fingers flexed upon his arm, feeling him up so subtly. He got the idea that Monty was ashamed of his apparent taste for men bigger than himself. It was no feat to be larger than the skinny tycoon, but Waylon had always leaned into husky territory.
His hands traversed Monty's body, mindful of his bones, stroking his flank to his hip, reaching under to press his bottom, skirting further along to a thigh so thin that Waylon could nearly clasp his entire hand about it. Monty moaned into his mouth in response, clutching him harder, begging harder.
What was he supposed to do with this creature?
"I want you inside me," Monty whispered in his ear.
Damned debauching animal, making an adulterer out of him.
"Come a little closer…"
Damned seducer, stroking him so tenderly.
"Come…"
He grabbed Monty's wrist. "That's enough."
The tycoon kissed him again. "No. It will never be enough; never again." He pressed Waylon's hand to his erection, looking past his brow with eyes of antique desire, transparent. "You should drink more. Don't you dare waste my hospitality."
"Monty, I have to go home."
The words choked the flame within. Monty blinked, looked away. Waylon thought him upon the precipice of tears. What a sight that would have been. A sight for the eyes of no one.
"Home," Monty drawled. "Will it ever be home again, Waylon?"
"Of course it will."
"Can it ever be home again when you've lived here?"
"Of course."
Monty's eyes traveled the dark parlor, searching for words that could convince Waylon to stay. Great manipulator, over and done, dead where he lay upon Waylon's lap.
"I'll…" Monty felt his ruffled clothing. His fingers played at the open collar of his shirt, searching for the rough hands that had unfastened those buttons. "I'll… if you stay… I'll…" He stood up, barely keeping his balance. "Nevermind."
The drinking had led to touching, touching to kissing. Kissing would lead to Waylon granting Monty's desires. He couldn't have that; he would never forgive himself. Waylon stood. He wrapped Monty in his arms and pulled him close, the tycoon's head upon his chest.
"You deserve to be loved," the employee said. "I hope you realize that."
"I fear that… to love and be loved is for men lesser than I." He took up Waylon's hand, stroked the golden band, faced it. "So, does it thrill you to know that the richest man in Springfield is jealous of you?"
"No. It only makes me sad."
"I can only produce anger and sorrow in others. That is my curse."
"Will you be alright if I leave?"
"I've no choice in the matter. It seems the only way to prevent you from rapidly aging is to avoid creasing your face with worry."
Waylon chuckled. "At least you're looking out for me." He hesitated. For just one fleeting second, Montgomery was well and truly his. He kissed him in an attempt to capture the moment, but it was gone before their lips could touch. So brief, so agonizingly brief. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Monty nodded. "I'll hold you to that, Mr. Smithers."
Not nearly as soused as Monty was, Waylon drove himself home.
He found Evelyn in bed, fast asleep, dreaming of their future. He kissed her shoulder and slipped in next to her. A future, he thought. With love and children. He was so rich, richer than that strange tycoon in his mansion with his aged liquors. Indeed, Monty's jealousy was not unwarranted.