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It was a perfectly fine present. Really, it was. Francis should be feeling ever so grateful, such an interesting gift sure to be a massive help. With things so hectic in the French parliament, he’s always needed for something or other, to settle some petty dispute about age of retirement and whatever the next issue is after that. Francis can admit, he’s been allowing his own home to fall into slobbery, dust gathering on the counters and unwashed plates stacking up in his sink—it’s not that he likes living like that, of course not, he simply hasn’t the time to worry about such mundane chores when an entire country is reliant on him. So, truly, the gift is quite thoughtful. Yet still…
“I would have been fine with a bottle of wine!” He can’t help but to protest yet again, despite knowing Ludwig would have none of it.
All the man does is shake his head, giving Francis one of those looks that has him shutting up in fear of retaliation. The last thing Francis wants to do is make a scene, especially in these festive times, and so grudgingly does he accept his Christmas present. How he’s supposed to get this back home, he hasn’t a clue—but wisely decides not to mention that. Knowing Ludwig, he already has a whole five-step plan, so he doesn’t worry too much.
There’s still a little red wrapping paper attached to the wooden box, more of a casket if you ask Francis, that houses his unfortunate yet well-meaning gift; it’s too lifelike, looking as if a man asleep, or perhaps dead. It has eyelids, flimsy things painted the same pale as the rest of it. Its face is mostly smooth, edges clearly having been sanded down to be seamless, only the slightest of grooves to indicate the ability to emote, to speak, to frown, to smile. Lips, a shade of pink so delicate it’s like a rose’s petal, are pressed in a firm line, but clearly separate things, and if it weren’t so authentic Francis would slip his finger between them to feel for teeth, for tongue. Perhaps in a bid to look more human, it has hair too: blond, a lighter shade than his own, and cut in a similar style. Overall, its face is near perfect, aside from where whoever painted it (Feliciano, most likely) seemingly pressed too hard with a brush and gave it those garishly large eyebrows. Idly, Francis wonders what colour its eyes are.
Being currently inside a box and laying flat on its back, it’s a tad hard to tell how tall it is, maybe only an inch or two shorter than himself and much skinnier, as if the person designing it knew man’s size only in theory. Leaning in, Francis takes the robot’s hand in his own, feeling the smooth metal beneath his fingertips and marvelling at just how small the balls in the thing’s knuckles are. The android has clothes on, thank god, but they don’t cover much; a loose shirt which falls down one of its shoulders, ill fitting shorts, and slip-on shoes. Clearly whoever dressed it cared more about the machinery than making it look presentable. Francis doesn’t mind, it just means he can dress the robot how he pleases.
If this were a gift solely from Ludwig, Francis would surely decline much more wholeheartedly than he had moments ago. But since it’s a combined gift from the three Axis, he feels a little better about accepting it (if he had to guess, he assumes Kiku designed and help program the android, likely basing its body type off of himself, Ludwig actually built the thing, and Feliciano painted it, ensuring it looked more like a man and less like a walking hunk of metal). It even came with a user’s manual, which Francis doesn’t even bother to skim before shoving into his bag, wanting to socialise at the party rather than read Ludwig’s stuffy instructions.
*****
It’s the night after next that finally does he reopen that casket, laying his eyes upon the android yet again. Next day delivery is one of the few blessings of the modern century that has Francis wondering how he ever managed to live without it. Now, still encased in that wooden prison, is the robot all his to do with as he pleases. And Francis doesn’t know what to do. He’s tried pinching it, pulling open its eyelids to reveal black eyes, even resorting to shaking the damn thing and yet still it won’t awake. Francis has a knife in his hands, raised ready to stab the robot in hopes that maybe that would startle it alive when he suddenly remembers the instruction manual that he had tossed aside so haphazardly. Maybe he should read that before impaling the machine.
After rummaging about through his satchel and pulling out that lazily folded piece of paper, he lets out a little sigh of relief. But upon closer inspection, it wasn’t Ludwig’s neat print that greets him, but the wild cursive of someone else.
‘Dear Big Brother France,
What do you think of the robot? Pretty cool, right! Ludwig spent a whole week working on it, he was so busy even I wasn’t allowed in his workshop! Although, that’s probably because I kept spilling water all over his fancy gadgets… anyway! Kiku told me to write down some code words for you to work the little automa, so here you go:
Ten-sixty-six, that’s its name! I’m pretty sure you can change it somewhere, but I forgot. It should respond to its name awake or asleep, if it works right.
Twelve-fifteen, for when you want it to be quiet and sleep. I think that’s a little mean, but who knows, maybe it has an attitude!
There was another, something with a seven, or maybe a sixteen, or was it a five? That one was supposed to factory reset him, so I hope you don’t want to do that anytime soon. Other than that, there aren’t any more codes. Please try not to chip the paint, it took a really long time to get it so lifelike!
Lots of Love, Italy Veneziano
P.s. Please don’t bring back the robot if it comes to life and tries to enslave humanity, that’s way too scary!’
Carefully folding the manual, if he could even call it that, and placing it in his bedside table, Francis breathes out a sigh. If Ludwig would have written that letter, he’s sure it would have every possible scrap of information Francis could ever need, and if Kiku had written it, it would have been short and concise. Instead, he has two codes (with one technically being its name. Ten-sixty-six, is that how many failures there were before this robot?) which may or may not work, and an allusion to a third. It was fine. Maybe Francis could just ask the machine, when it wakes up—or, more accurately, when he wakes it .
“Uh… Ten-sixty-six? Are you awake?” He asks lamely, tapping the automaton’s cold cheek.
When nothing happens, Francis can’t help but to sigh again. The robot can make a good decoration, he supposes, since it clearly doesn’t work. Maybe in the corner, he can replace his Christmas tree and just stick out its arms to hang baubles off of. Or as one of those animal skin rugs, although the thing isn’t nearly flat enough for that. Francis, instead of simply staring at the android as he has been for the past hour, decides to pour himself a glass of wine and put on one of the cheesy romantic comedy films his country is so known for. He’s walking back to the sofa, full cup of red wine in his loose grasp and a dvd tucked under his arm that Francis has the worst heart attack of his life.
“Hello.” The robot is sitting up now, green LED eyes peering into Francis’ soul, still as a statue and with a voice so monotone it makes him shiver.
Francis can admit, this shit is the scariest thing he’s seen in all his life, and he does in fact drop his wine glass to the floor and spill red liquor all over his white faux fur rug. Francis can also admit that he shrieked like a little girl, and may or may not have fallen to his ass.
“ Mon Dieu- Do not scare me like that!” He’s got a hand in his hair, eyes wide, trying to catch his breath and not bothering to hide the shock in his voice.
“My apologies.” Is all the robot, Ten-sixty-six, replies with, not an ounce of sorry in that flat tone. There’s no trace of an accent, or inflection, or anything in its voice.
As terrifying as it was to suddenly hear another man’s voice out of nowhere, now Francis’ attention is captured by something else. He gets to his feet, reminds himself to clean up the spilt wine later, and approaches the android. It’s still in its packaging, legs flat against the bottom of the box, its back a perfect ninety degree angle and in no way how any human would sit. Being just slightly taller than the machine, and also not sitting, Francis stands above the automaton. Carefully taking its chin between his fingers, he tilts its head, the robot’s green, illuminated eyes never once leaving Francis’. Limp like a doll, he can move the robot with ease, examining it. He really doesn’t know why Ten-sixty-six was made to be so realistic, even with eyelashes and little freckles—clearly, Feliciano had too much fun painting it. However, the robot does need some proper clothes. It might reflect a little poorly on Francis if his robot maid is dressed like an orphan.
“How much do you weigh? I imagine quite a lot, considering you’re all nuts and bolts.” Francis taps his chin as he thinks, releasing the machine’s head and watching its expression, or lack thereof.
“I do not know.” Clearly, conversation was getting nowhere. A shame, especially since Francis does so love a lively chat. Whatever, Francis has always considered himself to be a man of deeds, not just mere words.
It’s with that mindset that Francis loops the android’s arms around his neck, tucks his arm under its legs and lifts it with surprising ease. It fits against his chest quite well, offering no resistance but also not holding on, either. If Francis had to guess, it weighed perhaps a tad more than he did. Although a weird sensation to have a lax man-machine in his arms, he feels he could grow used to this, even if he doesn’t exactly know when he’d have to carry the robot when it has two perfectly working legs.
“Oh! This isn't so bad-” Francis steps forward, wanting to drop the android onto the sofa, trips over his rug, tilts forward, and watches in horror as his brand-new robot, the peak of Axis engineering, his lovingly hand-crafted Christmas present, drops to the floor and whacks the side its head against his coffee table.
“...merde.” Francis stands there, a look of pure terror on his face as the robot spasms.
After too long of standing there like an idiot, Francis drops to his knees beside the android, as gently as humanly possible pulling its head into his lap. With his hands worriedly in the robot’s hair, Francis leans in to suspect the possible damage.
“Ludwig is going to kill me.”
The robot’s head is clearly dented, the metal clearly crumpling in, looking almost like a skull that has been bashed in. Its striking green eyes which before were so clear and defined now flicker, one eyelid even fluttering open and closed, open and closed. Spasming every now and then in his arms, Francis frets over how badly he might have ruined his brand new machine, and over how he was supposed to tell Ludwig.
“Ten-sixty-six, can you hear me?” Francis whispers, shaking the android perhaps a bit too frantically.
The robot spasms again, its fists clenching, its head twitching, its jaw slightly agape. Ever so slowly do its eyes seem to focus on Francis, still a hazy green, occasionally going fully grey before snapping back to colour. A few tense moments pass where Francis believes he’s broken the thing for good when it shakes, stares at him, shakes again, and finally speaks.
“M-My apologies, Master.. I’m alright…” Its voice trembles just as its body does, voice still as flat as ever but now almost glitching, getting caught on the vowels and lengthening them.
Francis sucks in a breath.
“Please don’t call me that, that is way too BDSM. François is fine.”
The robot pauses, stares at him, flinches, then nods, although it looks much more like a roll of its head then any nod Francis has ever seen.
“I’m sorry, Francis.” Instead of being separate, clunky sounds like before, the android’s words slur into one.
“Eh, close enough. Now, are you sure you’re okay? Do you need rest? Should I take you back to Ludwig? Non- I can’t take you back, he would never let me live it down!” He’s panicking, that much is obvious, carefully tracing over the indent in the robot’s skull as if by sheer force of will he can mold it back into place.
Francis truly doesn’t know what to do. If he hands the android back to Ludwig, not only does that show he’s an irresponsible robot owner but also that he can’t be trusted with anything nice. But, he isn’t cruel, he doesn’t want Ten-sixty-six to suffer. Maybe he should shut the robot off? Try to mend the dent himself? If Francis takes a plunger to the android’s head, would that fix things?
“No, I will be fine. Allow me to just-” Just as the robot’s spasming has begun to calm, and it is finally beginning to push itself to its feet, it promptly collapses back into Francis’ lap.
At least, this time, Francis’ thighs serve as a cushion to stop Ten-sixty-six’s head from slamming into the ground. Almost completely certain his legs are going to be covered in bruises, he winces a little and pushes the limp machine off of him. Torn between just leaving it there and actually attempting to lift it yet again, Francis ponders over what mistakes he’s made in his life to get him here.
Sighing for what feels like the umpteenth time today, he stands and takes the robot’s feet in his hands, dragging it across the floor and into his bedroom, trying not to flinch every time its head smacks against a loose floorboard. The stairs are even worse, a sickening thud for every step, and Francis does truly begin to worry that he’s doing more harm than good. But it’s not exactly like he can just leave the automaton in the middle of the stairs, so he resigns himself to hearing another dozen light clunks against his staircase. Deciding that perhaps Ten-sixty-six deserves something nice after all it's been through so far, he hauls the man-machine into his lavish king sized bed, fluffing up his tens of pillows to gently rest the robot’s dented head onto them. For a moment, the android looks dead, its pale skin without colour and eyes shut peacefully, the only sign of life being its scarce twitching. Francis tucks it in properly, is just at his door, ready to make himself comfortable with sleeping on the sofa when he glances back at the robot, his robot. He can’t just leave it alone, what if it woke up again when Francis is gone? What if it needs something?
Pulling out a plush velvet armchair, Francis stares at Ten-sixty-six, runs his hands through his hair, bends down to press a quick kiss against its cold forehead by way of apology, and settles himself with searching online for some clothes to make the android look like less of a hobo.
*****
Francis wakes, hair a mess, laptop askew on his lap, to the low whirring of motors and a gentle shake of his shoulder. For a moment he thinks he’s in an engine room on an old motorboat, the quiet humming of gears so familiar it’s startling. But he isn’t on a steamboat, he’s laying slumped in his armchair, two bright green lights staring down at him. Francis does as any man would do and loudly swears, his laptop falling from his lap and a sickening sense of deja vu washing over him.
“I’m sorry. Again.” Ten-sixty-six is standing in front of him, bent slightly at the waist, staring down at him with the slightest tilt of its head and its hand on his shoulder.
Francis lets out a little breath, thankful that at least this time he didn’t ruin anything of importance. And similarly thankful that the robot is back on his feet and not broken beyond repair. Now he won’t have to send the machine back to Ludwig after all, wonderful!
“You don’t have to apologise, I don’t know what for. Why… why do you look like that?” Francis sits up a little, actually focussing on the android, taking in its slightly charred hair.
“Francis. The kitchen is on fire. I was trying to make cereal.” The robot says simply, as if commenting on the weather.
He doesn’t react for a moment. How is he even supposed to react? It’s only when a plume of smoke wafts in from his doorway that Francis jumps to his feet, grabs the automaton’s forearm and hurriedly drag him to the kitchen.
“Cereal?! How did you manage to burn it?!” Thankfully, when Francis sprints into his kitchen he only finds the oven aflame.
Completely opposite to the flustered Francis, the android is surprisingly calm for having almost been set alight. Its fingertips have soot coating them, its blond hair having burnt split ends, even its fringe being choppy from clearly having been on fire.
“I poured in the cereal, then set the frying pan in the oven to heat the milk.” Ten-sixty-six easily explains, its words making sense only to itself and sounding utterly mad to Francis.
He yanks out the pan, burning his palm on the handle and hastily chucking it into the sink. Doing the bare minimum, the android opens a window and attempts to clear the smoke, somewhat succeeding.
“Wait, wait- cereal? In a pan? How did you even jump to that conclusion?!” If Francis weren’t currently trying to stop his house from burning down, he'd be yanking his hair out in frustration.
It's still explaining its thought process, if Francis could even call it that, as he’s dousing the flames in dishwater. Ten-sixty-six is standing off to his side, obviously unsure as to what to do, looking perfectly amicable.
“I thought it had to cook to solidify?” The automaton tilts its head a little, looking like a confused puppy, its green eyes glowing in the low-light.
Francis feels his sanity slipping from him. Why, he asks God, is this robot so stupid? Was it made like this? Is this Francis’ fault for dropping it and then smacking its head against each step of his stairs? Oh no, does it have brain damage?
He doesn’t even look at Ten-sixty-six until his frying pan is no longer on fire, cleaned, and put away. This may be all because of him. If he had actually been cleaning his home, then the Axis would have never seen fit to build him this machine, and said machine would have never been dropped on its head and set his kitchen alight. This thought does make Francis feel a little guilty. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so harsh to the poor machine, since it really is trying its best.
“Mon ami, why were you trying to make cereal? You don’t need to eat.” Francis finally turns to face the android.
Maybe by figuring out its thought process, he can ensure something like this never happens again. Francis really doesn’t want to replace his whole oven next time.
If the machine weren’t a machine, he would say Ten-sixty-six looks almost embarrassed, what with the way it refuses to meet his eyes and fiddles with its fragile fingers. Taking a long while to answer, when it finally does it has Francis feeling even guiltier.
“I wanted to make a good impression. I’m supposed to be taking care of you and already I have failed.” Its piercing green eyes are downcast, looking surprisingly gloomy.
Francis was right, this really is all his fault. He must have knocked a screw loose, hit the robot on the head one too many times to cause its inability to cook. Where before, when Ten-sixty-six couldn’t answer his question about its weight, not a shed of regret did it express. But maybe he’s overthinking things. So what, the android says it can’t fulfill its purpose and looks quite depressed about this fact, that doesn’t mean it actually feels bad about it. It’s a machine, it can’t feel anything.
“You’re doing fine. I haven’t exactly given you many opportunities to prove yourself, have I?” Ever so gently does Francis cup the android’s cheek, holding it tenderly and stroking his thumb over its hand-painted cheekbone.
Francis must truly be losing his mind, because he swears he feels Ten-sixty-six sag in relief.
“Yes, Francis.” That monotone voice, so flat and robotic, carries the whispers of gratefulness.
Now seeing the android so close, a glaring problem stares him in the face. All the fine French clothing he ordered would go to waste if he allows this issue to continue, such a terrible sight it makes him frown. It doesn’t ruin the robot entirely—it still looks passable, and if Francis didn’t know the context he would simply assume it’s a strange stylistic choice, but he does know better, and can’t keep looking at Ten-sixty-six. The poor thing doesn’t even know, bless its little heart.
“Oh, your hair!” Francis takes the singed and now uneven ends between his fingers, looking positively dismayed.
It glances between its split ends and Francis’ sorrowful expression, very clearly seeing nothing wrong with how its hair looks. After a pregnant pause, it speaks hesitantly.
“You could cut it off, if you’d like.”
Despite not knowing whether or not he even has scissors meant for hair, Francis nods. It’s as good a solution as any, and if it fixes the burnt mess that is the tips of the robot’s hair, he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, if anyone can salvage the mess on Ten-sixty-six’s head, it’s him.
“Great idea! Come along now, mon petit robot.” With new pep in his step does Francis cheerfully lead the automaton through the corridor and into his master bathroom, pulling out a little stool and pushing it to sit.
Like the good little robot that it is, Ten-sixty-six dutifully sits as still as possible on its tiny seat as Francis snips away at its singed ends with a smile. There is a mirror in front of him, allowing him to see the android’s slightly inquisitive face as it watches him cut off lock after lock. Since only the ends were caught by the flames, he thankfully only has to give it a trim to restore the machine’s professional look once again. And since Francis is a sucker for customisation, he’s having the time of his life.
After no longer than five minutes does Francis let out a pleased huff, evidently very pleased with his work. In Ten-sixty-six’s humble opinion, it looks the exact same. Its hair is still shoulder length, now just slightly shorter than Francis’, lacking the burnt ends but aside from that it can’t notice much else. It’s just so… bland.
“There! What do you think? Magnificent, non?” The pride in his voice is clear to hear.
“I look terrible.”
“You look like me!”
Silence.
“Rude.”
After all the effort Francis put in to fix the robot’s hair it doesn’t even appreciate it—which is a weird thought, since the robot shouldn’t appreciate it, shouldn’t appreciate anything, since it has no wants or needs. On that note, Ten-sixty-six shouldn’t have opinions on how it looks, either. It didn’t have an opinion when Francis lifted it in his arms, and it didn’t have an opinion when he took its chin between his fingers and moved its face all around, yet it does now. How peculiar.
“If you don’t like it, sort it yourself. I’m going to make breakfast.” If the robot hears the indignation in Francis’ words, it ignores it.
Since the android seems perfectly happy to ‘fix’ its hair itself, he busies himself with making a full plate. He cuts his bread into little bite size pieces, spreads over it some butter and apricot jam, a pain au chocolat, and a nice cup of coffee to start his morning. It’s only after he’s eaten his food, patted off his crumbs with a napkin, and set his dishes on the side to wash later that Francis realises Ten-sixty-six has been in the bathroom for far too long. With a nauseating feeling deep in his gut, he calmly walks up the stairs, knocks gently on the bathroom door and calls out in a sing-song voice.
“Ten-sixty-six? Are you doing well in there?”
There’s a pause, and then.
“Perfectly well, thank you!”
The robot is far too pleased with itself. It scares him. When Francis does finally open that door, he lets out the most lung-expanding, disorientating, guttural gasp of his life. He hasn’t even got the words to describe what he sees in front of him, but if he had to try his best, he’d say a terror attack. Ten-sixty-six’s previously flowing blond hair, so soft to the touch, modelled after his own and frankly breathtaking, pooling by its shoulders and just oh so perfect is now disgusting. It’s choppy, layers clearly attempted, even a jagged fringe to frame its all too proud face. It could be worse, Francis thinks wearily, at least it isn’t bald. But it’s near enough. Right up to its scalp, hardly enough to even tie into a ponytail. He has tears in his eyes. It’s horrible.
“I think I look rather distinguished. What do you think? Francis?” Ten-sixty-six, bless its mechanical heart, even smiles a little as it shows off its new hairdo.
Francis hasn’t the heart to tell it how ugly it looks. The android has already had such a terrible existence; becoming brain damaged, collapsing into Francis’ thighs, and now it looks like a mop has been placed on its head.
“Oui.” Is all he can get out without sobbing.
This last day has definitely been eventful. In all honesty, Francis doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. So far the robot maid he’s been given to tidy his house has stolen his bed, set fire to his kitchen, and left tufts of its blond hair all over his bathroom floor. He knows what he needs. The one thing that could salvage this day.
Francis needs a drink.
He leaves without a word, the confused robot following after him just as its code dictates, no longer asking him questions but instead just quietly a few steps behind him. Back in the kitchen, it’s almost second nature as he grabs an old bottle of red wine and a glass. Just as he’s about to uncork the bottle Ten-sixty-six skillfully snatches the opener from Francis’ grip, in one swift movement opening the bottle and pouring the liquor into his awaiting cup.
“I am here to serve you, Francis.” Is that a genuine trace of inflection in the android’s tone, maybe even some cheekiness? It just keeps getting weirder and weirder.
As thanks, he leans over to place a small kiss upon Ten-sixty-six’s metal forehead, making sure the effect is really felt by making a ‘mwah!’ sound as he does so. The robot allows him, of course, Francis doubts it even has the ability to deny him, but it does stare intently at him when he pulls away, as if processing something. A little freaky, but Francis is in no position to judge.
“Merci, Ten-sixty- I can’t keep calling you that!” Francis groans a little, taking a sip of his wine as he thinks.
“It’s a mouthful. You need a better name, mon ami. Something snappy! Something French!”
He properly appraises the soon to be renamed Ten-sixty-six, taking in its atrocious haircut, its heavy brows, that fair skin and little freckles. It’s easy on the eyes, Francis can give it that much. This robot needs an appropriate name, one which embodies its defining characteristics—he would name it ‘Imébcile’, but he can’t exactly say that in public.
“How about… Arsène? A respectable French name, very old, very classic. Quite adorable, too!” He hums, taking yet another sip of his glass, savouring the taste as it slips down his throat.
“Arson?” The android repeats, nodding its head a little
“Fitting, but non, Arsène.” Francis corrects, speaking the name very slowly so that the robot can understand.
“Arrival?” It tries again.
“How did you even get that? It’s Arsène .”
“Arthur?”
“You know what? Close enough. A bit British for my taste, but anything’s better than Ten-sixty-six.” For all intents and purposes, he’s given up. It seems the robot, Arthur, just doesn’t have a knack for language. Or cooking. Maybe he really did give Arthur brain damage.
Taking a seat on the sofa, Francis leans back and relaxes, patting the space next to him for Arthur to sit. Of course, it does, although it does plop down surprisingly far, as if it’s afraid he bites. Not liking the silence, and because liquor always loosens his lips, he opens his mouth to speak when the android beats him to it.
“Are you upset? Is it because of the kitchen? I can make it better next time, I swear.” It may just be the alcohol influencing him, because Francis is certain he can hear sadness in its tone.
The odd urge to comfort the machine fills his chest, and seeing no reason not to, he does.
“No! No, no, I’m not upset! Just perhaps don’t try to cook again. I’m sure you have plenty of other talents.” He isn’t exactly certain on that last part, since the android hasn’t done much good so far, but despite that Francis feels himself warming up to the silly machine.
Not seeming in better spirits, Arthur slumps a little, slowly nodding its head.
“Yes, Francis. I’ll keep to my regular chores… I won’t try to cook again.” The robot is practically pouting, looking so disheartened it’s surprising.
Now Francis feels even worse. He takes another large sip from his wine glass before turning to face the machine, seeing how its green eyes refuse to meet his, just how downtrodden it appears.
“Oh, Arthur, don’t feel bad-” He starts, scooting a little closer to Arthur when he’s cut off.
“I apologise. Maybe you would be better off with a different robot to assist you.” Such a sharp contrast from before, its words are empty, back to lacking any tone, any inflection, even any of that odd British accent Francis can hear rearing its head.
Francis feels almost offended by that, the fact that Arthur would think he needs any other robot than the one in front of him.
“Are you crazy? I’d never get rid of you..” He moves much, much closer to the android now, their thighs pressing together, shoulders touching, Francis tilting Arthur’s head up to face him.
Much to his surprise, even when it really shouldn’t be, the robot leans in, resting its head on Francis’ shoulder as it speaks.
“Really? Do you mean that?” Its voice is a mumble, so quiet and hesitant it’s endearing. Francis is so happy to hear emotion back in its voice, so happy the thought that machines don’t have emotions, that they can’t feel, doesn’t even cross his mind.
He smiles, a sappy thing, kissing Arthur on the forehead in a gross display of sentimentality.
“You cannot cook, or speak French, but you’re still you. I’d rather be here, with Arthur , than any other stuffy robot.” Francis leans over to settle his wine glass on the very coffee table that Arthur had smashed his head on not twenty-four hours before, moving slowly to ensure he doesn’t jostle the robot resting on his shoulder too much.
Arthur’s quiet for a moment, at a loss for words, and Francis doesn’t know if it’s the wine coursing through his veins or if the robot really does have a blush on its cheeks.
“A-Ah, I see…”
It sits up, still pressed as close as ever against Francis, perhaps even more so now. With some hesitation, it settles its cold, metal hands on his shoulders, simply looking up at him for a moment.
“I’m so grateful.” Arthur breaths out shakily, arching into Francis, their chests pressing together just so.
Francis wraps his arms around the robot’s slim waist, pulling it in closer, their faces now mere inches apart. He doesn’t know if he should do what every fibre of his being is telling him to do, to pull Arthur flush against him, to feel for himself what the robot’s mouth tastes like. Just as his hand slips down to the small of Arthur’s back, tantalisingly close to its ass, Arthur steals the choice from him and kisses him. It’s shy at first, as if it’s afraid Francis will pull away, and when all he does is eagerly lean in and even let out the slightest of moans, it’s like a new breath of life has been pushed into the android.
Francis does get to find out whether the android has a tongue, whether those rosy lips really are made for love. With Arthur on top of him, devouring his lips with such expertise it steals all thought from his head, he’s proud of the fact that he knows Arthur has plenty of other talents.
The End~