A/N: Words alone cannot express my love for this couple. I got into them shortly after getting into The Simpsons. Also, my step-dad, mom, and big sister love the series, so they helped to make me watch it as well. Within a few seconds, I was dying. SO...FUNNY! I enjoyed the well-written dynamic of Burns and Smithers, Burns being the eccentric billionaire and Smithers as the cute, awkward character who sorta follows him around. This was inspired by the most beautiful song in the world: "The Unofficial Smithers Love Song". Ta!

Disclaimer: I do not own the radiating brilliance that is The Simpsons. Matt Groening and FOX do.

Shades of red, white and pink hearts decorated the nuclear power plant. Love was in the air, as well as the waft of flowery perfume, strong cologne, and cocoa sweetness. Rich words of cherish and affection were whispered into the ears of those who were seemingly, according to their gleaming faces, the most loved in the world. A certain young man with glasses observed jealously as couples everywhere snuggled, kissed, fed each other chocolate, and smelled flowers. It was Valentines Day: also known as, in Smithers's case, National Singles Appreciation Day.

"Oh! What's a man to do on the most stressful day of the year?" the young brunet moaned, slumping in an executive chair and hiding his face in his hands. One of his friends, a random assistant named Rupert, came up to him when he noticed how down he looked.

"What's the matter, Waylon?" he asked curiously. Usually Smithers was in good spirits, but today was not one of those days.

"Ugh. I don't get it, Rupert. How were all these couples able to admit their feelings to one-another without throwing up in their mouths? ...Well, excluding the obvious reason they're all heterosexual, anyway," he sighed. Rupert narrowed his small brown eyes in thought.

"Beats me, bud. I know how you feel, though. Springfield barely even tolerates anybody who's different in human society. When I told my ma I converted to Buddhism...*whistle* boy, did she hit the roof that day." Smithers chuckled good-naturedly at the red-head's comment and got to the point of what he was thinking about at the moment.

"I just...I don't know how to tell the apple of my eye...my dearest desire...what I feel for him. Every time I try to say the words, they cling onto my tongue and stay there. I can't speak, my whole face reddens, my heart does gymnastics, and my palms sweat buckets. Then he walks right through me, as if nothing happens, and I stand there, blushing and sputtering like a fool. Dammit, I'm too shy." He hung his head in shame once more. Meanwhile, Rupert's smile expanded until it covered half of his face: he'd just gotten an idea.

"I know what! If you can't say the words, then perhaps it would be better as a letter or a poem. You have a graceful charm and chivalrousness when it comes to romance, Waylon," he remarked. Smithers chortled and shook his head.

"What the hell are you talking about, Rupert? I'm not a romantic."

"Ah-ah-ah~! Sure you are! All you have to do is find what's inside your heart and unleash its passionate message onto the paper in front of you. Don't stop and edit until you're done: it comes out better that way," Rupert advised. He handed the bespectacled man a piece of paper, causing him to feel much better and more confident in what he was doing.

"Thanks, pal."

"Aw, no problem, man. Anytime," the red-head replied warmly, before clapping him on the shoulder and getting back to work. Smithers turned to face the blank paper sitting in front of him. Find what's inside my heart, huh? Perhaps a poem should be able to sum up how I feel after all, he thought. He began to work on his finest masterpiece, only stopping to edit and assist the man he was so enamored by: Mr. Charles Montgomery Burns.

Later that evening, when he was satisfied with what he wrote, he decided to take the poem with him up to Mr. Burns's office. But when he went to the desk to retrieve it, he realized with great horror, that it was gone. He searched all around the desk in a panicked fashion, wondering frantically where it had gone. At the same time, he heard a large crowd of people laughing and sneering. He went up to the crowd of people curiously.

"Hi, guys! What's going on?" he asked casually. Everybody turned and stared at him with such disgust and hatred. Smithers felt buck naked under their judgemental, killer gazes, and began fumbling with his articles of clothing. Everybody in the factory (excluding Rupert, who went home after his shift), was largely homophobic and disapproved of Smithers's poem. The leader, an old bully named Dirk Grandmaison, held the poem in his hands and had just finished reading it jeeringly to the crowd. One by one, everybody began to revile Smithers.

"The devil walks among us! And thy name is Waylon Smithers!"

"Stay away from our children! We don't want you screwing them up with your faggotry!"

"Your sick, unnatural ways make baby Jesus cry! Impure! Impure!"

That wiped the awkward smile right off Smithers's normally cheery face. His face became a ghostly white and he stood there, shocked by how much he was hated. When a lot of people really hate you, your whole body goes numb and your thoughts become jumbled in a mess of anxiety. Smithers could feel his face growing red under the intense heat this conversation was producing. He began to shake visibly.

"But - But guys! It's still me! I'm still that same guy from Springfield you've always known," he tried to explain. However, nobody was buying it.

"Shut up and go suck your watermelon, fag!"

"I hope you die of AIDS, you twinkle-toed pansy!"

"Guys like you are better off in asylums and gulags!"

Smithers opened his mouth in protest as one last attempt to hide his hurt feelings, but was shot down with everybody chanting,

"Burn him! Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!"

At that, he became a frightened little boy and ran, sobbing, into the men's bathroom. He locked himself in a stall, collapsed onto the floor and threw up while bawling at the same time. The whole epidemic made him feel sick and the pain was almost unbearable for him to handle. He felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of his chest and trampled upon by the whole population of Springfield. Worst of all was that Mr. Burns was liable to react the same exact way and fire him. Smithers lay his head on the toilet seat, shivering, hiccuping and unable to get up from where he was.

Meanwhile, Mr. Burns was in his office, impatiently tapping his fingers upon the desk.

"I sent Smithers to get me coffee just five minutes ago! What's taking him so long?!" He sighed, went downstairs, and walked up to Smithers's executive desk. "Smithers! Quit lollygagging about and bring me my coffee! ...Smithers?" He wasn't there. Mr. Burns scratched his head in thought and noticed a piece of paper in a wastebasket next to the desk. Undoubtedly, Smithers had thrown it away. But...why was it written in cursive? In pink ink? And stained with tears?

He read what was on the paper and gasped in realization. It was a poem! Smithers had written a poem for him and it was quite possibly one of the most beautiful things he'd ever read. Mr. Burns smiled, allowing a tear to flow down his face from the beauty. He decided to frame it later, but for now, there was a certain young brunet and a mug of coffee he needed to find.

Mr. Burns asked around the factory, but nobody knew where he had gone. Surely if Smithers went anywhere outside the factory he would've told him, but he couldn't remember if he had. Not a single coffee-maker looked used. ...Interesting. It was then that he heard a noise coming from the bathroom. It sounded so full of despair and agony. Mr. Burns opened one of the stalls after walking inside and found Smithers sitting on the toilet lid, sobbing his eyes out and covering his face with his hands.

Now was not the time for an inquiry as to where the hell his coffee was. Right now, Smithers was crying and it was Mr. Burns's duty to recede the tears. The older man anchored his arms around him and ruffled the back of his hair in a calm, stately manner. Smithers responded by crying even louder and burying his face in the crook of Mr. Burns's neck. He was embarrassed by the fact that he was acting like an emotional wreck in front of his boss.

"I-I'm sorry, Monty," he choked, chuckling hysterically as more tears poured down, "You weren't supposed to see me like this."

"Oh, shut up, you dolt, and let me hug you," Mr. Burns responded affectionately. Smithers didn't pull away. The old man took him off the toilet lid and held him in his arms, cradling him like he used to when the younger man was a little boy. He looked down at the melancholy face below him and saw the disheveled clothing, blotched red face, teary pink eyes, and salty water droplets. He leaned down and brushed his cheek up against his, whispering sweet nothings into his ear just like he'd always wanted.

That night, after Smithers tucked Mr. Burns into bed, he began to depart from the room. The older man sat up immediately at this.

"Waylon," he whispered, patting the spot next to him on the bed, "C'mere, boy." Waylon blushed considerably at the use of his first name and the thought of laying next to Monty in bed, but he obliged. After all, he didn't want to disappoint him. Once he lay down, Monty took him into his arms in a cuddle and stroked a crimson cheek with care. Waylon's breath hitched and he stared at the old man with his lips parted before relaxing into the touch.

"Is this for me?" he asked, holding up the poem in question. Waylon gasped silently at the fact that he'd actually read it before nodding.

"Yes, sir. And I mean every word," he replied softly.

"It's beautiful, Waylon. Thank you." Monty hugged him close to his body before continuing as an afterthought, "That is, almost as beautiful as revenge."

"Why, what do you mean?" Waylon asked confusedly.

"I fired every employee in the factory today," the older man explained. The whole thing was so outlandish that Waylon couldn't not laugh.

"But Monty! What are we gonna do about next month?" he giggled. Monty chuckled and replied,

"Eh, whatever. It makes it cheaper anyway. Who knows, maybe we can run it together. You know, just you and me against the whole world."

"Yeah," Waylon agreed, snuggling up to Monty, "That would be nice."

Monty kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "Good night, Waylon. I love you,"

The younger man groaned in happiness and reciprocated the cheek-kiss. "Good night, Monty. Love you too."

"Happy Valentine's Day, you fool."

"Right back at'cha, moron."

They fell asleep in the same cuddling position while the poem Waylon had written hung on the wall behind Monty's desk:

I wish I were caressing your hand with mine.

Soft...

Warm...

Strong...

You have the most beautiful hands in the world.

Beads of sweat trickle down my face,

Transcending into silver lakes of perspiration when I so much as hear your name.

I feel warm, for your heart has set mine ablaze.

I am love-drunk, for your beauty is intoxicating.

I can fly, for you taught me how to believe.

There is nothing more I want than to wake up to see your smiling face.

To kiss you, touch you, remind you how IN love I am with you,

Because not even "I love you" is enough to tell you how I feel.

How I feel when you gaze into my eyes with your own chocolate ones...

How I feel when you praise me and laugh that pretty little laugh of yours...

Even how I feel when you fire your employees so shamelessly.

Words are not strong and passionate enough to describe our emotions, but our hearts say more than enough already.

And so, I present you with this mediocre poem, since you cannot X-Ray my heart for proof that it's stronger than what I have written.

And though these words are seemingly cliché, I shall proceed to whisper them endearingly into your ear the next time I see you:

"I love you, Monty."