A/N: Thank you to @Endergirl1212 for the shoutout on her last chapter of 'Fidelity!' Awesome burnsmithers story. And now onto this thing... :O Edit: Added illustration for you all, also on my tumblr.
Burns had gone to bed fairly soon after they arrived at the manor, dragging his feet, almost falling asleep before he climbed into bed.
Waylon stayed up a while after, the entire night at the gala melding together in his head as he too succumbed to fatigue, yawning, the bed enticing.
The slow drift of the Seine traffic sounded distantly from between the banks of the city overlapped by the chattering from the open cafes.
Waylon found himself by a mirror hung on the stained wood wall of a quiet bar, whose patrons and bartenders seemed out of a monochrome film, cigarette smoke and hats obscuring their faces. The atmosphere was somewhat calming, soothing, against clinks of glasses and the soft tones of voice. He sporadically caught French, though he could never make out a conversation; it floated around him in lyrical waves.
The mirror was of green glass circled by gold. He hesitantly glanced into it, his hand going to his collar. No headache came, or perhaps it was only mollified by the ambiance.
He was a version of himself from a bygone time. A dark suit, unbuttoned, a vest and dress shirt underneath. His glasses, too, had changed, the frames smaller, and his hair was swept to one side.
Briefly, he wondered why he was there, but then, he was supposed to be here, in Paris-
Hands fell on his shoulders, he lifted his head to the mirror. His expression softened; he smiled, turned. "Monty."
Burns smiled, his hand sliding into Waylon's. He wore a light jacket over vest, just as old-fashioned as Waylon's. His eyes were clear and bright, his hair slightly windswept.
"I told you I would return," he murmured, "come."
Waylon had no idea where they might be going, but that didn't matter.
Out a door, into the street streaming with lamps and lights from the city's nightlife, his hand in Burns', his heart alight.
Suddenly into a warm alcove, from elsewhere music played. A subtle musk clung to the air. Burns slipped him behind a corner, caressed his hair, his face.
"Dear Waylon..."
Lips closed over his, Burns' hands behind Waylon's head and back pulling him against Burns' chest, over his heart.
The lucidity of his touch struck Waylon, compelled him to fervour, holding onto Burns' slender frame, tenderly kissing him in return, lingering on each exchange, forever fearing he would soon be disillusioned.
Burns coughed, a ragged grunt, and Waylon shifted backwards, his brow furrowed as Burns continued to cough, his elbow covering his mouth, his head tilted down.
"Monty?"
Burns brought his hand away from his face, stained deep red on his palm. He regarded Waylon with watering eyes, his expression contorted with pain. "I..." He coughed again, more blood. His body shook and heaved. Waylon lifted him from under as he began to fall, biting his lip in worry. Blood flecked Burns' face and collar.
"We- we have to get you help!" Waylon snatched a cloth and dabbed at the blood, as more trickled from the side of Burns' mouth.
"It's..." Burns coughed again, "it's too late, Waylon. Stay with me, now." He clung to Waylon's sleeves by shaking hands.
YOU ARE READING
New Reflections (Burnsmithers)
Fanfiction[Complete] One day, Mr Burns wonders what it would be like if he and Smithers were closer in age; if he, Burns, were younger. The next morning is as usual until Waylon discovers Burns has undergone a drastic change overnight- one that affects them b...
