"What I need is the dandelion in the spring.

The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction.

The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses.

That it can be good again."

― Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

Chapter Twenty-One

The Final Resolve

Breathing had become a burden as Waylon struggled with the task. He faltered, his heart mocking the actions, as he inched cautiously toward the elder. Burns' icy gaze, usually so piercing and spine-chilling, was dulled to that of two lumps of nearly-lifeless charcoal, yet it remained impatient nonetheless.

"Hu-hurry up, Smithers! I ha-aven't got the time for you to be lollygagging around!" Burns barked before his speech was stolen and replaced with a series of chest-straining coughs, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, sir…" Waylon muttered beneath his breath as the ruby trail from the other's lower lip to chin caught his eye. He adjusted his glasses as he grabbed a fistful of napkins from the elegantly-crafted nightstand. Through sheer instinct, he daubed the napkins against Burns' chin, soaking away the droplets of precious blood that had only been replenished a few months prior. "Sir, why wouldn't you just take the damn treatment? W-why do you always have to be so bullheaded?!"

"Oh, stop with the theatrics, Waylon," the ailing man heaved as he, while for vastly different reasons, too, struggled to breathe. "Now, s-sit down, as I said, I have something to say."

"Right away, sir, just let me grab a pe-,"

"That won't be necessary," Burns interrupted as he ran a limp hand along the bandages wrapped around his balding head before letting the hand plummet back to the bed. "I don't need you jotting any of what I'm about to say down, don't want everyone thinking old Monty was a softy in the face of death. Now, just sit down and listen."

Despite the befuddlement that momentarily contracted his anguish, Waylon did as he always had and complied with the demand. He sat, one leg crossed upon the other and hands along the guardrail that had been situated around the bed, and gave his undivided attention to the other.

"What's this about, sir? I thought I'd be the last person you'd want to see right now."

"Waylon," Monty sharply exhaled in a mixture of physical agony and mental exhaustion, "you have no moxie… look at you, sitting there, pouting in self-pity, while I – C. Montgomery Brans-,"

"Burns-," Smithers corrected, ignoring the jab at his character that he hadn't quite expected.

"Yes, yes, of course, I was merely testing you," the elder fibbed through a cough before continuing, "I – C. Montgomery Burns – am the one who is dying."

Dying – Smithers hated that word. The word itself was dead as every sentence speaking of dying was often short-lived, edited by those unwilling to speak of such a drab and dreary subject. Dying, dead, death – it was all the same; they were all things that made life seem completely, utterly pointless. What did it matter what was done when it was to all end with the same result – death. And yet, in that thought, there was a comfort; for one day, Smithers, too, would be dead and he'd finally be Burns' equal. Death was the only true form of equality, after all.

A sharp gasp from his former boss drew Waylon's attention back to reality, which had suddenly become as dry as the autumn air that resided within the manor. The younger of the two paled, worry and stress replacing the blood that flowed through his veins. He began to tremble, quaking from the thoughts of death and despair that crept up along his spine.

"Wh-what is blazes is he doing here?!" Burns demanded feebly, a finger jutted toward the shadowy figure in his doorway that came to light as Moe casually strolled into the room.

"Mo-oo-oe, I thought you were going to wait for me downstairs."

"And miss all da actions?" Moe attempted to joke to restore some lightheartedness to the room. His efforts fell short and his eyes fell toward the floor as he awkwardly scuffed the polished marble with the ball of his foot. "Uh, sorry, dat was a little insensitives…."

"You think?" The opposite scoffed as he clutched the bridge of his nose betwixt his fingers. "Sir, I am so sorry about this. Moe's just here for support."

Another scoff flitted in the air, this time from Burns' rapidly collapsing chest, "support? Ha, phooey!" The elder gave a silent glare to the scummy-looking sight of the bartender looming behind his former assistant. "Ackhem, I was trying to have a few parting words with ole Mr. Smithers here. So, if you'd be so kind as to get out."

"Listen here, Bur-,"

Moe's sharp protest was interrupt by Waylon's impulsive grip upon his hand. The touch, yet one of firm warning, was warm in spite of the horrific chill of looming death in the air.

"Um, Moe, just don't get in the way, okay?"

Burns eyed the two – their subtle contacts, their uncomfortably confused gazes at each other, and the way their chests froze whenever one would brush against the other – and a tiny smirk sprawled along his horribly hollowed face.

"Well, I must say, Smithers, you got over me rather quickly," he chuckled casually, ignoring the coughs that sputtered blood from his chest. "And here I thought you'd never let those wild fantasies of yours go."

Waylon's breath hitched, his grip upon the barkeep's hand tightening, and he sputtered. His eyes grew wide behind his glasses, which slipped down to rest upon the tip of his nose with aide from the nervous sweat beading upon his face, and his lower lip quivered. His mind was reeling, each tiny fantasy he'd ever had flashing before his eyes as though death were shortly to take him as well.

"S-sir… how did you…? I mean… you knew? You knew about how I felt for you? And you knew this whole time?"

Was he astonished? Absolutely. Was he hurt? Slightly. Was he livid?… No. The anger that should have burned from his core and spurted fire upon the unsuspecting town never did arise. The agony of decades spent in silent yearning, spent with unsatisfied urges and rejected cravings all were for nothing – and somehow, despite how he'd anticipated himself to react, Smithers was fine. There was no hellish fury to burn in, no pools of tears to drown in, no drunken slurs to numb the pain at the expense of his liver – there was simply a subtle twinge of relief.

"Indeed, I did," Burns giggled rather giddily as though it had been some schoolboy secret he'd been keeping. "And I'm glad to see you've finally given up on that nonsense. Look at me, old enough to be your grandfather – you're a twisted man, Smithers. A damn fine worker, but a twisted man nonetheless."

"Ay, don't talks about Waylon dat ways!"

"Moe, it's okay…. Sir, what did you just say?"

Waylon could scarcely believe his ears, thinking he must have mistaken the tiny gem of encouragement netted within the usual insults.

"Youse deaf all of suddens? He said youse was a twisted ma-,"

"No, no, not that part!" Smithers shushed Moe, who was beginning to resent the constant shunning he'd been receiving the majority of the day. "Mr. Burns, what did you just say about me being a good worker?"

Burns cursed to himself, having hoped his kindness had been either unheard or ignored. His stare lost a bit of its cheeky luster and his voice dropped to a begrudging whisper, "you heard right, Smithers. You're a damn fine worker, any man would be lucky to have you for an assistant."

Breath was thieved from Waylon as his thoughts were scattered, years of confusion and painful waiting boiled down to a singular moment in which he was set free from his burdens. It was as though the confirmation, just the concept that there was some real depth behind what he'd burned a candle at both ends for, the affirmation that he wasn't completely insane gave him some comfort, some strength to let go. And every minute feeling he'd harbored for the man dying before his eyes was suddenly lifted from his body and he could breathe for what seemed the first time since life's beginning.

"Oh my God," Waylon muttered, grasping at his chest as his mouth fell agape. His heart, through the swift and final break, had begun to stitch itself to be whole once again.

Moe flushed with concern as the other clutched his chest, "ay, youse alright dere, Waylon?" Silence followed coupled with a blank stare behind coke-bottle specs. "Waylon!"

Smithers took no time for reaction, only for pure action itself. He stood from the chair, it nearly collapsing to the floor from the abrupt movements, and he roughly grabbed hold of Burns' hand, shaking it vigorously.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you! That's all I ever wanted… needed… to hear!"

"Ow! Ca-calm yourself, man!" The elder gagged violently as his feeble hand was nearly crushed beneath the younger, more muscular man's intense grip. "I'm a dying man; I don't need you shaking me about and rushing things along."

"Right," Waylon agreed with a nod and blush as he returned to his seat, his hand still holding a limp grip on his former boss', "sorry. There's just one thing I don't understand – if you knew, why didn't you ever say anything?"

A scoff of a laugh, "I simply didn't feel the same. Why bother pondering unreturned feelings, especially when there was so much other work to be done? I was a man of money and power, Waylon, not of love and passion. As I said before, you were a damn fine worker - a pleasure to do business with - but my feelings never were anything but business toward you. And it seems you've adjusted just fine."

Monty's gaze gestured to Moe, who blushed awkwardly at what the dying man insinuated.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he stammered, fumbling over himself a bit before using the chair where Waylon sat to keep his balance, "youse got da wrong idea dere, Burnsie; it ain't like dats. Waylon and me – we's just friends."

"Oh-ho, you two are rich! Why, if it weren't for you keeping him so busy, Waylon may have actually been on time once in a while! Going at each other like jackrabbits."

Smithers and Moe were near mirror images of stunned expressions, shaking their heads in denial despite the redness sprawling along their faces revealing their every mistake.

"How'd youse know about dats?"

"Moe!"

"What?!"

Waylon groaned softly as he hid his face in embarrassment, "Mr. Burns, is there anything you need?" It was an awkward shot at shifting an even more awkward conversation.

"Yes – yes, there is one other thing," Monty started, his voice dropping octaves as a blaring fit of coughs struck him and his fingers wrapped loosely around Waylon's. "You… well, Smithers, you did a good job. It's been an honor working alongside you all these years."

The former assistant nodded, a beaming smile stretched from one ear to the other.

"Thank you, sir," he muttered softly as he fought back the tears that suddenly stung like broken shards of crystals amongst his reddened eyes. "Is there anything else?"

Silence – it had crept silently into the room, a thief of pure invisibility. Waylon's smile slowly began to fade as his thumb brushed nervously along the black-and-purple mess of veins that was Burns' hand, hoping to provoke a response – there was none.

"Sir…?"

His heart dropped, static buzzing in his ears as he inhaled a deep sigh and sharply spat it back into the chill of the room. His eyes fell shut for a moment as he shifted away from his chair, managing to fumble to his feet.

"W-well," he choked upon a sob as he spoke, his head lowered to hide the tears that had begun to streak his face, "I… I guess that's that…."

Moe's heart, too, dropped; in spite of the hatred he harbored for the lifeless man that lay helplessly in the bed, it pained him to see that mask that Waylon strapped on. He hesitated for but a moment before gaining the courage to wrap his arms awkwardly around the taller man's frame, pulling him into a friendly, caring embrace.

"Aw, Waylon, I'm… I'm really sorry dere. I knows dis is tough on ya's."

Smithers sniffled and coughed as his own emotions tried to throttle him, and he politely pulled slightly from the embrace.

"I… I have to go tell the nurse."

"Youse just leave dats ta me," Moe replied, ushering the other from the room with a passing glance back at the corpse that mere moments before had been carrying on with them. The barkeep assisted Waylon into one of the many lined-up chairs in the expansive hall, patting the broad shoulders before setting off to find the nurse in question, "youse stay here and try ta relax. I'll's be right backs."

Lisa tapped her foot as she tried to keep rhythm with the notes she'd scrawled along the paper.

"Ugh! That's not right!" She shouted, ripping the defenseless page from her composition book and tossing it spitefully to the floor. "Maybe…" she pondered as she quickly formed a slew of different notes. "No, that won't work either. Oh, why did I have to get the le-,"

Her voice was crudely halted when her ear caught a fuzzy news report wafting from the television downstairs.

"Our latest story: Mr. Charles Montgomery Burns – prestigious owner and operator of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant – has passed away. Reporters are on the scene as the millionaire's body is being transported from his extensive estate and to the county morgue. In other news – jaundice: what it says for all of our livers-,"

Lisa had hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping over a few of Maggie's toys along the way, and lunged for the remote, eyes wide as she noticed it was clutched in her brother's hand.

"Wh-what did they just say about Mr. Burns?"

Bart's face held an unusual sign of remorse as he anxiously scratched at his elbow with the end of the remote, "uh, he died, Lis…. I'm really sorry."

"No. How? When?" She stammered questions that held no logical answer as she managed to wrestle the remote from her brother and turn the television's channel back over to the news.

Smithers trembled heavily as he fruitlessly attempted to avoid contact with the many cameras that were being shoved in his face from various different directions and angles. Microphones were soon to follow as many reporters swarmed the vacillating man, who Moe was helping to be escorted through the swarm of announcers.

"Mr. Smithers! Mr. Smithers!" One of the female newscasters exclaimed, imposing a microphone up to Waylon's quaking lips. "Is it true that you're suing the hospital for failure to properly treat your boss?"

"What? No! Absolutely not!" Waylon grumbled in frustration as he swatted at the microphone, lowering it a bit in order to speak. "I can assure all of you that the hospital did everything in their power to sa-,"

"Mr. Smithers, question – who will be taking over the plant in Burns' abscense?"

"Well, we have a great manager that may be assuming the posi-,"

"Ooh, Mr. Smithers, will the pending lawsuit over Mr. Burns' nuclear waste distribution proceed despite his death?"

"It… well… I don't think… it…"

Overwhelmed with anxiety and the urge to vomit, Waylon struggled to remain standing and found himself unable to finish speaking. His shoulders slumped beneath Moe's shepherding hands, alerting the other to the fact that Waylon was near collapsing.

"Alright! Alright!" Moe bellowed, whacking a few microphones out of the way and pressing his palm over one of the cameras, causing it to broadcast a blur of colors to the citizens of Springfield. "Nothin' ta see heres! Ain't youse people got any respects fo' da dead around heres, sheesh?!"

One of the newscasters swiftly moved to recover the story, determined not to let the local tavern owner's outburst ruin a breaking story – regardless of how insensitive it may have seemed.

"U-um, it is reported that Monty Burns has passed away from complications stemming from an aggressive form of brain cancer that was diagnosed a few months ago. We'll keep you updated on this story as we gather more information. Until then, I'm your ancho-,"

Lisa grunted in disgust as she flicked off the television, fuming at how the media had already begun their animalistic feast upon the elder's death with no regard to the grieving parties involved.

"Uh, you okay, Lis…?"

"Fine…." The girl retorted with a snip as she slammed the remote into the unsuspecting cushion of the couch. "I just can't believe they'd do that to poor Mr. Smithers. After all he's been through, and they can't give him two seconds to cope with any of it! I'm telling you, Bart, they're savages!"

Bart nodded in agreement, unwilling to protest against his sibling when she was in such an uproar. He shifted against the cushion as he pushed himself up from the couch and headed toward the kitchen in desperate need to remove himself from the situation.

"You want some soda or something?"

The eight-year-old scoffed as her arms folded across her chest, "no… I have to go finish my piece for that stupid parade next week."

"You mean you aren't going to go running to your bo-oo-oyfriend?" The boy teased in a sympathetic tone that contradicted his very meaning. He watched as Lisa stomped up the staircase in disdain, crushing and destroying one of Maggie's toys in the process. "What did I say? Lisa… c'mon, Lisa! I was just trying to help!"

"Life has no meaning.

Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life.

It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer."

― Joseph Campbell