Chapter 3

The Ring Cycle

The pair stood on a stage before the grand ballroom, the guests seated in chairs, watching as Homer presided in front.

"Do you, Charles Montgomery Burns, take–"

Smithers whispered to Homer, "We wrote our own vows, remember?" Well, sort of. Monty provided the gist of his vows, but I metamorphosed them into something a little more poetic.

"Oh, that's right. That just makes it easier for me."

Burns cleared his throat, then took Smithers' hands into his. "I want to live out my days with you by my side. To cherish and to savor you like a fine wine that ages as well as I have. To honor and love you as you have always honored and loved me. To make you complete as you have completed me." He squeezed Smithers' hands as tightly as he could and gazed determinedly into his eyes. "And I will give you your due respect." It caught Smithers off-guard, his penetrating stare slightly intimidating him despite the positive sentiment, as the last sentence was not part of the vows they'd written, so it felt as though he were speaking to him only. "Okay. You go."

He blinked the enraptured tears out of his eyes and cleared his throat. "For over twenty years, I've languished after you, hopeless and adrift, aching and despairing. And just when I lost all hope..." his voice crumbled, "you shone your love on me like a beacon. I pledge to my heart – I mean, I pledge you my heart, for when eternity – until eternity ends – I'm sorry, let me start over. I guess I'm just, I can't believe I'm really standing here in front of you all, about to m-marry," he began to cry as he looked into Burns' eyes with desperate longing, "to marry you. My..." his tears flowed increasingly readily, "my one true love. I pledge... I pledge you my soul, my heart and my soul..." He broke down crying, bringing Burns' hands up to his face and crying into them.

"You promised you wouldn't do this," he said, trying to wrest his hands away. Disconcerted at Smithers' inability to regain his composure, Burns turned to Homer and said, "Just read the standard vows."

"Do you, Charles Montgomery Burns–"

"I already said mine."

"Sorry, it's a package deal. Do you, Charles Montgomery Burns, take Waylon Smithers to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?"

"Yes. I do."

"Do you, Waylon Smithers, take Montgomery Burns to be your lawful wedded husband?"

"God, yes! I mean, go on."

"Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?"

"Yes. Yes, I do!"

"I now pronounce you married. You may now–"

Smithers took Burns in his arms and dipped him, kissing him deeply, relishing in the liberating feeling of publicly expressing his passion.

They proceeded with the reception, where they danced to the eponymous song of the musical Anything Goes. Then wedding photographers captured the moment as they playfully fed each other pieces of the wedding cake, which had plastic figurines of themselves perched at the top.

"Thank you, Monty, for making this the happiest day of my life." He kissed Burns' cheek, his own rubescent cheeks still wet with tears. "So, mom...what do you think?" he asked, nervously twiddling the umbrella in his cocktail. "Be honest."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I tried to be happy for you, but all I could think during the ceremony was, 'I'm almost glad your father is dead so he doesn't have to see this.'"

Smithers stiffened his lip as tears welled up in his eyes and his chest hiccuped. He looked into Burns' eyes briefly before shutting his own. He set his drink down beside the cake, the cocktail sloshing out as the glass wobbled on the tabletop, and he ran out of the room, silently wiping a tear from his cheek.

Burns approached the microphone. "Consider the festivities terminated effective immediately. Once I catch up to Waylon, I will order him to release the hounds, so if you enjoy having all your skin, I suggest you start running now." He tented his fingers then walked briskly out of the room and, noting Smithers was nowhere in sight, headed for the conservatory. He opened the door slowly and peeked his head in to verify his hunch about Smithers' whereabouts. "Waylon?"

Smithers lay on his back in the window seat, gazing forlornly at the Malibu Stacy wearing a wedding dress and veil that he held above his head. He stroked the veil, flipping it back over her head and repeating the motion as gravity repeatedly drew it back over her face. Leaning against the door frame, Burns said, "Waylon." He didn't answer, and for a full minute there was such silence that the only sound they could hear was the sound of the mesh veil rubbing against the satin dress. "Smithers! Answer me at once."

Without altering his gaze or his rhythmic stroking, Smithers said, "I don't know why it bothers me so much. It didn't bother me like this when I assumed he'd be ashamed of me for being gay. But I feel like I've failed him by falling in love with you."

"I wish I could tell you he would approve of our union. But I know he wouldn't." He took a few steps forward, picking up a 1978 Fun at the Beach Malibu Stacy still in its package from a shelf in the middle of the room and inspecting it as if attempting to divine its appeal to his husband. He set it back on the shelf and turned sharply to Smithers. "Snap out of it. It's foolish to let family and friends stand in the way of what you want. I didn't marry a fool."

Smithers finally looked to him, drawing the doll to his chest. "I wish it were as easy for me to live that way as it is for you."

He took a few steps closer. "You think it's easy for me?" He sat lightly on the edge of the seat. "I cared deeply for your father. But he didn't give his life for us to spend ours wallowing in guilt." He leaned over and cradled Smithers' cheek in his hand, displacing his glasses, then he put their lips together and tentatively slid his tongue inside. Smithers inhaled sharply and moaned needfully, then feebly grasped at Burns' black bow tie, his fingers brushing the fabric then slipping away.

He turned his face toward the window, breaking their kiss. Burns leaned in again, his lips brushing the corner of Smithers', but Smithers clenched his lips together and turned his head away again. "No, Monty. I'm not in the mood."

"Pish tosh. Your trousers are telling me a different story." He lightly touched Smithers' lip with his index finger.

"Yeah, well, maybe I just don't want to be in the mood." Burns tilted his head down and grazed his teeth against his neck just below the jaw, then kissed him wetly. "Oh! But I am..." He sniffled. "I am..." Burns loosened Smithers' pants and slipped his hand inside. He grinned at the way he writhed in pleasure beneath him. "I shouldn't – oh...I shouldn't like this so much. I mean, at all. Mmm..." Burns pulled his pants and boxers down. "No – I can't! Mr. Burns, stop it!"

Burns pulled away abruptly. His voice solemn and his eyes averted in shame, he said, "You're right, Smithers. This whole affair was ill-conceived."

"Mon – huh? No, wait, what? No, no, no, no, Monty, no, this is right, this is– " He held Burns tightly against his chest, his Malibu Stacy falling off his chest and to the floor, the veil catching on his cufflink and tearing on the way down. "I..."

"Look so much like your father."

"I know you love me." He took Burns' hands in his.

"What makes you think love is enough?"

"Love is always enough! Love is what kept me by your side all these years. Love is what kept you from letting me go to prison. We're only together because of love. I know it sounds cheesy, but it's true."

"Your quixotism is as misguided as it is endearing."

"Monty...you have nothing to be ashamed of. This is real. Our love is pure, the purest either of us will ever know. Hell, you weren't ashamed of dumping radioactive waste in the park, of releasing the hounds on those orphans who came trick-or-treating, or of blocking out the sun. Why feel ashamed now?"

"Screwing people metaphorically is an enterprise far less fraught than screwing people literally." He ran the tips of his fingers along Smithers' chest. "I actually cared about what he thought of me." He pulled back, withdrawing his hand. "I still do. For Pete's sake, man, you're young enough to be my grandson."

"But...I'm not your grandson. Besides, you've been with women my age."

"I wasn't friends with any of their fathers."

"You just told me not to let friends or family stop me from getting what I want. I think it's damn good advice, and I'm taking it. So take me, Monty. Take what you want and let nobody stop you. The man I married would never accept anything less."

"The question is: do I want you more than I want to live up to your father's respect for me?"

"You care what he would think; do you care what I think? Because I think life is too short to deny yourself pleasure just because other people think it's gross. If I'd done that, I'd still be married to Cheryl and not to you. I would've died a miserable and lonely man enduring an unfulfilling sex life who subjected his wife to that same fate. When I left that marriage, I left that life behind. Don't let us meet that fate. We deserve better than that."

"That's easier for you to say. You weren't his closest friend. How would you feel if I were having sex with your son?"

"Envious. Of him, obviously, not – not of you."

"You wouldn't think I was a creepy old lech?"

"Please. I know you, and I know you wouldn't seduce a young man and take advantage of him. That's not your style."

"Cease your efforts to mollify me. You are failing to do so."

"There must be something I can say," he said, stroking Burns' inner thigh.

"Leave me be, you bespectacled Mata Hari! Nothing you can say will assuage me."

Smithers leaned in, tilted his head, and pressed their lips together. They kissed multiple times in quick succession, their lips never separating by more than a millimeter. When Burns pulled away, Smithers laid his hand on the back of Burns' neck, pulling him closer until his mouth met his ear, and whispered, "How could there be anything wrong with that?"

"Smithers..."

"Monty."

"...come here," he said, leaning against Smithers' chest as he scooted closer. Looking up into his eyes, he spoke wearily: "I want you."