"Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star.

It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago.

Maybe the star doesn't even exist anymore. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything."

― Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun


Chapter One

A Midsummer Night's Dream

On nights as dark and still as these, it felt as though there was no purpose. Perhaps there wasn't after all this time; perhaps it wasn't worth the wait of years – decades. Yet, he continued to wait with the stubbornness of a mule and the persistence of an eternal flame. Through gales of the strongest hurricanes, whilst being doused and drenched in water, or by being stomped by the feet of giants, the flame remained ever-bright.

His heart drummed against his ribs, which ached as the tempo of the organ fell sporadic. A heart attack seemed plausible, yet so did a violent panic attack – but those things had nothing to do with the arrhythmia. A true arrhythmia would have seen him dead long ago; this was no natural heart problem, but one man-made by himself and the one he ached for. The one that made his heart drum out of sync, his lungs inflate with air that he never could fully release, his head swim through depths that'd see the most savvy sailor dead, was the same one who left his feelings for all others numb and obsolete.

No suitor before had ever crippled him in a way that made him that much more efficient. The frail body that danced so delicately across the landscapes of his dreams and nightmares alike was, too, the strong mastermind that won him over with swift wit. An older man, old enough to be his own grandfather with a few extra years tacked on, captured his heart without even knowing it. C. Montgomery Burns – tyrannical and cynic to most, distinguished and prevailing to him – had taken Smithers' heart hostage years ago, caged it like a bird with clipped wings and vocal cords snapped and frayed.

Smithers sunk into a plush chair down the hall from his boss' extravagant bedroom, unable to leave Burns' Manor due to in climate weather that would surely have him dead. The multiple clocks strewn about the manor neared three in the morning, each tick of their hands beckoning for Smithers to join them in a wasteland of dreams. His lids were heavy and pleaded for surrender, which Smithers denied them. Sleep wasn't in the equation, not when it could come between him and his duty to serve.

Burns had been asleep hours before, nuzzled into bed with childhood teddy bear, Bobo, tucked under chin and clung to chest. Chances of his waking before a sensible hour of morning were slim, but slim was all Smithers needed to will himself through the night. He was there to serve, to protect, and he was there to see that the elder was at the utmost level of comfort.

Should Burns awaken, his assistant would be there, ready and willing to perform whatever task would be set before him. No matter how trivial or demeaning, he'd be over the moon to achieve absolute perfection. It was his job – or so he had convinced himself (and others) over the years – to risk life and limb for the sake of Burns' comfort and happiness.

The house settled with faint noises that performed a creaky lullaby, worsening the overwhelming desire of sleep held over Smithers. He ran a hand over his naturally jaundiced face, removing his glasses to clean them on the tail of his shirt. Touch seemed to be the only way he would see the sunrise; he ran hands over face, rubbed arms and kneecaps, grazed a hand through his off-brunette, buzz-cut locks. Each motion carried out with the simple purpose of fighting a losing battle.

A spark of electricity from the sky rammed itself into the ground, a clap of thunder following shortly thereafter that succeeded in rousing the man cramped in the chair. Smithers returned his smudged glasses to his face and stood from the plush cushions; he approached the window with a bit of caution, drawing the blinds down and the heavy draperies shut.

"Smithers!"

The echo of the voice seemed to crawl through the walls, wriggling behind expensive wallpaper in an attempt to break free and wreak havoc on unsuspecting ears; it would never bother Smithers, however, for his ears were always suspecting. His senses always revved in the highest gear when it came to anything to do with Burns.

He sprung from the chair, a rush of energy coursing through him like a miracle. His feet tapped against the polished marble tiles that stretched out from one corner of the upstairs wing to the opposite side a good ways apart. Smithers was careful and decisive with his motions as he seemed to glide along the floor in absolute silence, the type of silence that so often drug his imagination into depths that would make the crudest of the crude blush.

With gentle motions, he opened the door and entered the room. He gazed at the slight frame of his boss, his unwitting love, and the pastel pink nightshirt that hung loosely upon boney shoulders. Dark shadows cast upon the man to create such beautiful hallows in a worn body, then, as lightning struck the hilltops beyond the windows, the shadows cowarded in the illumination, which projected the softer curves of a rather sharp-boned body.

"Smithers," the elder whispered in near-hiss fashion, beckoning his assistant to him with a curling claw-like index finger, "I'd like you to close those curtains for me; all this lightning and bustle…. How's a man ever supposed to sleep in these conditions?"

"Sure thing, sir."

Smithers used the flashes from the lightning as a source of light as he stalked through the otherwise pitch black room. He reached the oversized window, untying the drawbacks from the heavyweight fabric of the curtains and drawing them shut. What was once a dark room became almost desolate and non-existent, only being illuminated when Smithers lit a candle that sat atop a nearby table.

He turned to take his leave, letting the candle's dim flicker guide him through the room. A passing glance distorted by candle light was the only parting image he could salvage of his boss. He smiled despite knowing the darkness concealed it, and he tilted his head toward Burns.

"If there's anything else I can do, sir, don't hesitate to let me know."

"Now, now, Smithers," the partially-balding man dragged out his words in a sarcastic drawl, "no one likes a suck-up."

An under breath sigh was followed by a forced tone of professionalism, "right… sorry, sir."

The younger stalked toward the door, flickering flame and bright blazes from the raging storm leading the way, with an unusual feeling in that damned heart of his. A shift of the mattress caught his ear as he held a limp grip on the brass knob of the door. He turned his head, chin to shoulder, as he faced Mr. Burns, and noticed that same pointed finger curling in gesture for him to return.

Burns possessed a slight smirk, one that seemed a bit sinister yet lustful, "I haven't asked you to leave yet, Smithers."

A fragile hand patted the silk comforter that stretched across the bed fit for a king. His fingers sprawled upon the comforter, rubbing to enjoy the sensation of such a fine-quality fabric, "sit."

Eyes wide behind glasses that sloped toward the tip of his nose, Smithers turned about in an awkward attempt to find someone (aside from himself) that his boss could possibly be talking to. There was no one (unless one was to count Bobo); only himself and his heart that somehow slithered to rest upon his sleeve.

His breath hitched, his face grew warm and rosy as revealed by the delicate glow of candlelight, and his voice became the stammers of a child who not yet knew how to speak. Regardless, he sat where instructed as a young lap dog would do to please their owner. He did anything to make sure each need, want, and fancy of Burns' was met, caring not of what it consisted of.

"There, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" Burns spoke, that smirk deepening as his hands steeple-d over his chest. "Answer me something, Smithers," he continued, sadistically enjoying the utter surprise that stretched across his assistant's rosy face, "do you find me… attractive?"

"A-attractive?"

"Yes, Smithers," the elder responded with a hasty chortle as he carefully articulated the next word in his arsenal, "a-ttrac-tive."

Smithers' heart leapt into his throat, forming a noose around his windpipes. His breath fell choppy, lips moving without words as he tried to gather what to say, "o-of course, sir, you're one of the most dashing men to set foot in Springfield."

It wasn't an atypical thing for him to say, as Burns often fished for compliments in some roundabout way. In fact, it was quite normal for Smithers to shuck out compliments toward his boss, wanting to make the silver-haired man realize those deep, burning desires within him without revealing the entirety of his feelings.

"Is that so?"

That sharp hiss struck Waylon's heart in a way that made it quiver, thumping against the bones in his chest. A splay of jaundice talons formed to the broadness of his shoulder, curling into the crinkled suit that he had been unable to change from.

"Oh, most certainly, sir…"

Burns interrupted, holding up a hand with his palm facing Smithers in a suggestion for the younger to shush, "enough with all this "sir" business, Waylon."

"Sorry, s-," he began while biting his lower lip to prevent the word his boss suddenly harbored displeasure for from seeping passed his lips. His eyes darted from one dark corner to another as he felt the space between the two of them being closed, Burns fussing with the purple bowtie clipped to the collar of Smithers' shirt. "Erm, what exactly is this about, sir?"

"Ah-ah-ah," Burns tsk-ed, lowering his head in mock disappointment, "please, Monty is much better suited for this occasion, don't you think?"

Smithers tried to swallow, his throat as dry and barren as the desert, as Burns inched ever closer, popping off the bowtie and undoing a top button or two.

"A-and what occasion might that be?" He fumbled over his words, trying to force them over a dry tongue. His hands grew clammy, sweat began to bead from pure excitement alone, and his entire body felt ravished with fever.

"Oh, you know…" the elder trailed off with a low, gruff chuckle. "Smithers, where's my breakfast?"

"Ah, huh?" Smithers managed through uneven breaths that caused his muscular chest to graze against Mr. Burns' boney one.

"Breakfast. Where is it?"

The blush on Smithers' face deepened as raw confusion consumed his fogged mind. He tried to understand what was happening, unable to grasp the most simple of information as he was straddled by the vessel of his yearnings.

"For the love of –," Burns grumbled as his spidery fingers clamped over his brow for a moment. He took the rolled up newspaper from the pocket of his robe, swiftly smacking Waylon's shoulder with great force for such weak hands. "Ah good, you're awake."

Half-lidded eyes with crooked glasses before them stared up at the robed man with the utmost befuddlement. Smithers' chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow movements and his heart was near to burst as his body flung itself into the upright position.

"Now, about that breakfa-."

"A dream…?" A dry-mouthed response spoken solely to the air, walls, and furniture. "It was just a dream."

"Ackhem…" Burns scoffed with phlegm behind the strained action. "Come now, Smithers, time waits for no man."


"The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world's existence.

All these half-tones of the soul's consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are."

― Fernando Pessoa