Work Text:
The humidity of a late June afternoon in Springfield, Oregon, hangs heavy and sweet, smelling of freshly mowed suburban lawns and the distant, metallic tang of the cooling towers. Cecil Terwilliger, thirty-eight and impeccably dressed in a linen suit that speaks of Princeton reunions and high-level hydraulic engineering, stands on his porch. He is checking his watch—a vintage Patek Philippe—when a sleek, midnight-blue Maserati Levante purrs into his driveway. The car is an anomaly in this neighborhood, a gleaming shard of European luxury slicing through the mundane.
The door swings open, and Moe Szyslak climbs out. At fifty-five, Moe’s face is a map of hard miles and barroom brawls, but today he wears a look of dazed triumph. His tuxedo is tailored—a miracle in itself—and he carries himself with a nervous, kinetic energy.
"Get in, Cece," Moe rasps, his voice like gravel being turned in a cement mixer. "We’re goin' up. Way up."
As Cecil settles into the buttery leather passenger seat, Moe explains the miracle. Nigel, an old-money aristocrat and a contemporary of Montgomery Burns, had taken a shine to Moe’s particular brand of "gritty authenticity." With Nigel’s backing, Moe hasn't just opened a bar; he’s claimed the sky. The destination is MoHo House, a super-exclusive lounge perched on the 104th floor of Springfield’s newest glass monolith. The transition from the street to the heights is a blur of high-speed elevators and shimmering steel.
When the doors slide open on the 104th floor, the atmosphere is electric. MoHo House is a cathedral of glass and gold, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the valley, the river, and the sunset's glowing embers. Unlike the 2015 "M" disaster—where Moe had donned the persona of a sneering venture capitalist and sold nothing but overpriced, smoky whiskey—this place feels earned. It is sophisticated, but the soul is still Moe’s. Cecil feels a surge of predatory pride. He looks at Moe, who is greeting dignitaries without a single snarl or "get bent." The friction of their engagement—the month of agonizing silence after Moe’s drunken July 2021 proposal, the weight of Cecil’s five previous marriages, and the ghost of the woman who left Moe in 2020—seems to evaporate in the thin, expensive air.
Cecil reaches out, hooks a finger into Moe’s vest, and practically drags him toward the back office. He doesn't care about the ribbon-cutting or the socialites. He wants the man who built this.
"Whoa, Cece! The guests—" Moe starts, but the heavy oak door clicks shut, muffling the roar of the celebration to a dull, rhythmic thrum.
Cecil doesn't give him a chance to finish. He pins Moe against the desk—a massive slab of mahogany—and devours his mouth. The kiss is frantic and desperate, tasting of expensive gin and the salt of honest sweat. Cecil’s hands, usually reserved for drafting blueprints and managing the city’s water pressure, are restless, wandering over the fine wool of Moe’s jacket.
"You did it," Cecil murmurs against Moe's lips, his voice a low, cultured purr. "No ego, no masquerade. Just... excellence."
He abandons Moe’s mouth, sliding his lips down the column of Moe’s throat. He finds the sensitive skin just below the jawline and begins to press deliberate, bruising hickeys into the flesh.
Moe gasps, his head lolling back against the leather executive chair. "Hey, watch the... the upholstery," he wheezes, though his hands are already bunching the fabric of Cecil’s shirt. "Besides, don't act so shocked. Mo’s did alright, didn't it? The gay club... that's how I caught your eye in the first place, ain't it?"
Cecil pauses, his breath hot against Moe’s neck. He remembers December 2019 vividly. Moe’s Tavern had transformed into "Mo’s" at 7 PM, a neon-soaked sanctuary where Moe had teetered on the edge of his own closet door. Cecil had spent many nights there, flirting with the surly bartender, watching the internal tug-of-war behind Moe’s eyes. "Mo's is a success because it’s authentic," Cecil retorts, moving his attention back to Moe’s earlobe, nipping it lightly. "But if you can still string together coherent sentences, then I clearly haven't been doing my job properly."
The room seems to shrink. The bass of the club music outside—a deep, tribal house beat—vibrates through the walls, through the floor, and into their very bones. The contrast between the high-society gala outside and the raw, sweating intimacy of the office is intoxicating. Moe’s breathing is ragged now. He reaches up, his scarred, calloused fingers tangling in Cecil’s meticulously groomed blond hair, ruining the style with a frantic, possessive grip.
"Cece, listen," Moe says, his voice losing its gravel and finding a rare, terrifying sincerity. He pulls Cecil back just enough to look him in the eye. The neon glow from the city below reflects in the office windows, casting long, blue shadows across his face. "Marry me," Moe says. It isn't a slurred plea like that night in 2021. It’s a demand. "I ain't drunk. I ain't lookin' for a way out. I'm lookin' for a way in. We can do it right. No more 'friction.' We’ll have one of them fancy picnic lunches you like tomorrow. I'll even eat the carrots. Just... marry me, Cece? For real this time?"
Cecil looks at him—really looks at him. He sees the man who survived the slums, the man who built a kingdom in the clouds, and the man who, despite everything, still wants to share a picnic with a Terwilliger. A slow, genuine smile spreads across Cecil’s face, softening the sharp angles of his features.
"Of course I will, you foolish, wonderful man," Cecil whispers. "Now, shut up and let me finish what I started."