Work Text:
Can Robots Fall In Love?
Michele Crispino does not hug. He does not like hugging. Even with family, like with his parents or Sara, he only gives awkward hugs, or wraps one arm around their back, or something like that. He does not hug, he does not kiss, he does not snuggle, and, from the perspective of the average person, he is not affectionate in the least.
Emil Nekola does hug. He loves hugs! Bear hugs, soft hugs, long hugs, short hugs, all kinds of hugs! It is easy to see why, then, the Italian would find the Czech annoying, at least in public.
Yet as stiff as Michele seems in public, Emil knows he has a softer side. Emil’s Mickey loves San Crispino wine and can down half the bottle on their nights alone at home before he gets red faced and starts ranting incoherently. Emil’s Mickey sings quietly while he chops onions and boils water for pasta, practically serenading the food. Sure, Mickey isn't always on key, and maybe he's just humming, but Emil thinks it's his favorite sound in the whole world. He sometimes waits in the kitchen, pretending to read a magazine (although he suspects Mickey knows he's just pretending) or rearranging the cheese or the peppers, just to listen to Mickey’s voice. It's low and husky, and there's a softness to it, a nostalgic longing. Emil loves it.
Of all the things Emil loves about Mickey, what he loves most is the way amore rolls off his tongue late at night when it's just him and Emil, tangled up with each other, the heat from their two bodies radiating. amore mio , Mickey says, and Emil feels his brain melt like a computer short circuiting. And when Mickey presses his soft kisses into Emil’s temple - mmmmmmmmm . It's the only thing that goes through Emil’s head, that contentment.
Mickey’s kisses are so much better than his hugs.
“Hey, Mickey?” Emil asks one night as Mickey kisses him.
“Hmmm?” Mickey replies, his lips still grazing Emil’s neck.
“When did you first fall in love with me?”
“When I was completely smashed,” the Italian groans in embarrassment.
“Really?” Emil gasps, pulling away from Mickey to hug a pillow - Mickey’s pillow.
Mickey pulls the pillow back, their shared blanket falling to reveal his sculpted stomach. Emil is tempted to poke it, but the last time he did that, Mickey had shrieked and punched him in the face on reflex. Apparently, Emil’s boyfriend was extremely ticklish in the stomach, and Emil sported a black eye for a week as proof of it.
“Yeah,” violet eyes look dreamily into the air, a nostalgic smile floating up onto Mickey’s face. “It was after the Grand Prix, two years ago. First time I looked at you and thought ‘damn, he’s hot,’ instead of ‘damn, he’s annoying.” His gaze shifts to Emil, squinting with that stupid half smile that Emil has grown to love so much. “You know, it’s weird, like the details are all so hazy, but I remember the exact moment really clearly.”
“Did you fall in love with my amazing charm and grace?” Emil asks excitedly, stroking his goatee in mock thought.
Mickey snorts. “Yeah, no, more like you were doing the robot and I was drunk off my ass.” He hesitates. “But I never really noticed how cute someone other than Sara could be until I saw you dancing so badly. And you did take me back to the hotel afterward, and I’ve never really been taken care of by anyone else, so …”
“H-hey!” Mickey protests, as Emil wraps him in the warmest bear hug ever, his goatee tickling Mickey’s cheek. Emil couldn’t be happier; all he wanted was for Mickey to be safe and happy, and to think, he was the one who made Mickey feel that way!
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The first time Mickey kissed Emil was after the Grand Prix Final. Emil had told his coach he was in Barcelona to watch the Grand Prix, something about “learning from the better skaters” and “improving through watching,” but he really didn’t remember the actual Grand Prix that well. ( Let’s be real, coach , Emil had thought. Mickey Crispino is clearly the only reason I’m going to Spain .) He had cheered along with everyone, and he paid attention at first, but at some point in the evening, he became painfully aware of Mickey right next to him, arms crossed and unamused. Furthermore, he became painfully aware of how much he wanted to reach over and stroke Mickey’s hair and his arms, wanted to be wrapped in those crossed arms, wanted those unamused eyes to look directly at him with love in them. Yes, at some point in the evening, he supposed it was right after seeing Yuuri Katsuki’s free skate (flawless! A flawless performance!), he had stopped paying attention to the skating and started focusing on Michele Crispino’s perfect chiseled jawline. If Mickey was a robot, he would have the most awesome jaw.
Could anyone really blame Emil for being excited for the end of the Grand Prix? He had suggested earlier in the weekend that they should go to a club afterward, and he was pleasantly surprised that Mickey had agreed! Okay, so maybe Mickey agreed to go only because Sara wanted to go, and maybe Sara and Mila would both be there, and maybe Mickey didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, but!, Emil thought, at least he would finally be clubbing it up in Barcelona, and with Mickey, no less! Besides, he mused, clubs were filled with people pressed up against each other like cookies in a tin, so if he were to “accidentally” bump into Mickey and maybe dance with him, then could anyone really fault him?
Emil, you sly bastard , he silently berated himself, but he smirked all the same. Mickey may have thought himself Sara’s knight, but Emil would be Mickey’s sworn protector! No one was going to hurt Mickey at the club! The Emil-inator wouldn’t let them! He would protect Mickey’s honor (and also maybe just maybe get a hug out of it, but that’s not the point), and if anyone tried to hurt his precious Mickey, he’d whoop their butt into next -
“Emil, are you coming?” Mickey interrupted his inner monologue impatiently. “I don’t want to stay out too late, and it was your idea to go in the first place.”
Emil didn’t even care that Mickey interrupted his heroic fantasies. One glance at the Italian’s grumpy pout, and his wires short circuited, because god , it should be illegal for someone to be that cute when they weren’t trying. Then again, that would mean Mickey was illegal, and he certainly didn’t want that.
“ Emil ,” Mickey called again, irked.
“Oh yeah, coming!” the Czech yelled, snapping out of his reveries. He happily launched himself toward Mila and the Crispino twins, much to Mickey’s chagrin.
He did notice that Mickey caught him instead of letting him fall to the ground, though.
“Mickey! You caught me!” the man child exclaimed, promptly causing the stern skater to drop him.
“Tch, I only did it so you wouldn’t hurt Sara. Be careful! You’re an eighteen year old man, stop acting like a giant puppy!”
“Mickey,” Sara chided, “Emil’s not hurting anyone. Besides, it’s good to be happy. At least he’s not a grumpy pants like you,” she teasingly reprimanded him.
Truth be told, Emil did not mind being told off by Mickey. It was cute how much he cared about other people. Mickey was so human, Emil thought. That was what really drew him in. At Europeans last year, Emil had made his senior debut, and it was there that he first met Mickey. Well, it was more like he observed Mickey from afar. Michele Crispino had been so stiff off the ice. He was rigid, did not talk to many of the other skaters, and he held himself upright, so upright that Emil wondered if maybe he did have a steel pole in his spine. Seventeen-year-old Emil was particularly interested because maybe Michele Crispino was an actual robot. He had hoped to get tips on how to be more robotic and maybe even get connections to someone who could make him into a cyborg (his coach had held him back from doing so, partly because it was rude, but also because, as he reminded Emil, “that’s absurd.” Yeah, right. Emil knew that cyborgs were real, and it had always been his dream to be a cyborg). As soon as Michele Crispino stepped on the ice, however, Emil’s view of him changed completely, like all the lights in a mad scientist’s secret lair suddenly switched on at once. Michele Crispino on ice was full of expression. He was the warmth of a family Christmas by the fireside, the hope of the new year, the relief of a knedilky at the dinner table after a long day at work. In other words, Michele Crispino was the farthest from a robot; Michele Crispino was utterly and completely human.
Emil realized that January night that he was totally smitten with Michele Crispino.
As he watched Mickey arguing with Sara, he felt the same way. Mickey is so warm. Emil longed to have Mickey look at him with the same concern he has for Sara, not like he did then, like Emil was competition of some sort.
Mila saved the day. “Hey, let’s get drinks,” she shouted over the pounding music, pulling Sara away by the arm just as Mickey was about to yell at her for talking to a cute Spanish boy (honestly, Emil thought, she didn’t even look interested in the Spanish boy. She was just polite). Sara gladly turned away from her twin and followed the redhead. The two women made their way through the crowd easily - everyone moved out of the way for those two beauties, especially the Russian, whose red hair stood out in the crowd - leaving Mickey behind. Emil smiled and inched closer to Mickey. Here was his chance!
“What do you want?” Mickey shoved him aside. Okay, maybe not. Even so, Emil followed him through the crowd, quickly grabbing Mickey’s hand. The latter turned around and glared at him, but clearly more shocked than angry.
“Wh-what are you - ” Mickey sputtered.
Emil grinned and squeezed his hand. “We shouldn’t get separated! Two foreigners in a place like this.” He hoped that was suave.
Evidently, it wasn’t smooth enough because Mickey just turned back around and kept walking. At the very least, though, he didn’t pull away from Emil. “Stay close,” he grunted.
Awwww, Mickey! You do care about me! Emil thought, elated.
Four rounds of Estrella beers later, Emil was ready to hit the dance floor. Sara and Mila had both disappeared into the crowd, but Emil caught glimpses of them from time to time, their bodies moving like the lava in lava lamps. He noticed how the guys around them ogled, but the women paid no mind. Emil glanced at Mickey, expecting him to fight someone, but instead, the red faced Italian man was crying into the table the four skaters had claimed earlier in the night.
“‘We’re better apart, after all,’ she says,” he muttered, on the verge of tears. “ Twenty-two years I’m by her side, protecting her from creeps, and she just ditches me!” He hiccuped, sobbing a little. Emil pat him awkwardly. He didn’t know what to do because Mickey was clearly drunk, so maybe he couldn’t consent to hugging? And he knew Mickey didn’t like hugs (clearly, after what happened after the Rostelecom Cup), but the man looked like he needed a hug right now. Not to mention, Emil wanted to give him a hug and never let go.
“Okay Mickey,” Emil chirped. “How about um… how about we go dance?” To be completely honest, Emil had hoped to dance with Mickey since the beginning of the night, but Mickey had not left Sara’s side. Now, though, Mickey needed cheering up.
“I dunnooooooooo,” Mickey howled, and Emil chuckled. Drunk Mickey was just as cute as sober Mickey.
“I’ll show you!” the Czech man boasted.
Ten minutes later, Emil was busting his back trying to do the robot to Eisenfunk’s “Pong.” He was frustrated that Mickey hadn’t joined him, but when he looked back at the table, Mickey was staring at him, his mouth agape.
“You call that moving?” he asked, incredulous when Emil returned to their table. He inhaled. “Boooooy, could I show you a thing or two!”
“Go ahead,” Emil prompted.
He expected Mickey to go onto the dance floor and start break dancing or something, but instead, the Italian grabbed Emil’s face and kissed him dead on the lips. The overwhelming scent of cinnamon eclipsed the sweat and beer smell from the club.
“HMPMMMPH” Emil uttered as Mickey kissed him harder. So that’s what Mickey’s lips tasted like.
Michele pushed him away. “How was that, robo-boy?” he said with a cheeky grin.
Emil’s cheeks hurt from smiling so widely. “Human,” he replied, pulling Mickey in for another kiss.
The flashing lights, the sound of Enrique Iglesias, and the cinnamon scent set the perfect scene for Emil’s first real human encounter.
After another two rounds of beers (and a lot more kissing, Emil might add), Mickey proceeded to throw up everywhere. At that point, Emil decided it was a good time to call a cab. It took about ten minutes to find Sara, another ten minutes of broken Spanish and gesturing trying to convey their message to the taxi driver (Emil never knew he could wave his arms up and down so much), and then a fifteen minute taxi ride back to the hotel, but at 4:47 am, Emil and Sara hoisted the extremely drunk Mickey into his eighth floor hotel room, helped him change his shirt, and tucked him in.
“Well,” Sara said dryly when Mickey was asleep and she had flopped into one of the hotel couch chairs. “Drunk Mickey. That’s a rare sight.” She smiled at Emil. “Thanks,” she whispered.
Emil waved her off. “Ah, don’t worry about it! Anything for a friend, right?”
Sara smiled sadly. “He doesn’t have many friends, so really, thank you.”
That night, Emil left the Crispinos’ hotel room feeling oddly satisfied. His last thought before he fell asleep in his own room was the lingering feeling of Mickey’s lips tenderly pressed against his.
The next morning, he was awoken by a loud knocking. Jolting up, Emil sprung toward the door, still half asleep. His body moved on autopilot, opening the door to reveal a very embarrassed Michele Crispino standing in the hallway front of his hotel room. The gears in Emil’s head whirred for a solid two seconds before fully processing the man he was looking at.
“Mickey!” Emil’s sleepy eyes lit up when he realized who it was.
The Italian skater looked embarrassed. “Um, about last night…” Mickey sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m… I’m sorry about, uh… everything…” he blushed, and Emil realized what he meant by “everything.”
“No, no, Mickey, it’s - ” fine . More than fine. God, Mickey, you’re so fine .
“Anyways, I just came by to apologize. And grazie , er, thank you… for… for helping me back…” Mickey interjected. “Sara told me you called the cab and brought me back, so euh, thank you.” He looked away and started to walk off, stiff once again like he had been back at Europeans last year.
“Mickey, wait!” Emil called after him.
Michele stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning to look back at Emil. Violet eyes connected with gray-blue ones, and Emil felt the tangible electricity run through him.
“Um, can I have your number?” the Czech man sheepishly asked, running his hand through his rumpled dark blond hair. “I… I had fun last night, and I dunno, we could… keep in touch, or… something…” God, Emil, that sounds so lame . He held his breath and looked down at the beige carpeted floor, waiting for Mickey to reject him.
When Emil finally looked up at Mickey, he saw the blush rising in Mickey’s tan face from his neck, wine for two filling up a glass. Emil could get drunk just by looking at this rare blushing Mickey, god .
“Y-yeah, sure,” Mickey mumbled. “I’d like that,” he had smiled shyly, handing Emil his phone.
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Emil Nekola loves to hug. He loves to cuddle. He loves to snuggle. He is fuzzy both inside and out, from his cheerful, warm personality, to his scruffy hair and goatee. For a figure skater, he is surprisingly soft. He resembles one of those six foot tall teddy bears that cost a fortune but that feel heavenly when hugged. Incidentally, he hugs more than anyone Michele Crispino knows.
Michele Crispino does not like to hug. He is a stern man, but not an unaffectionate man. He is hot-blooded: a passionate lover, an over-protective older brother, and a loyal son. None of this means he would willingly hug someone.
He would never willingly hug someone, with one exception: he constantly breaks his no hugging rule for his boyfriend, Emil Nekola. Emil is a big puppy, really, and although Mickey has never been a dog person, and although he could never get a real dog because taking care of Emil is a full time job on its own, he does find Emil ridiculously endearing.
Today, Mickey is making spaghetti for himself and Emil. It’s easy to make, and a little trite, he thinks to himself, an Italian making spaghetti. Nonetheless, he has put the water to boil, and he’ll throw in the pasta later. In the meantime, he chops the meat and onions for the sauce, humming quietly under his breath. It’s “Serenade for Two,” the song to which he skated when Sara told him they were better apart, the first Grand Prix Final where he had competed against Emil. He still remembers how much it stung to have his little sister tell him to leave her, but now, two years later, he has long since gotten over it. He’s happy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Emil pretending to read an Italian magazine, some fashion catalogue that Sara left behind when she visited last week. Mickey has to hold himself back from snickering so as to save Emil face. It’s obvious he’s only pretending; the magazine is upside down, the model’s red high heels where her black sunglasses should be. Mickey enjoys Emil’s company, although he won’t admit it. There are some things that he will never admit to Emil, at least not explicitly. For one thing, he feels safe near Emil, who, despite being four years younger, towers over him, something about which he is incredibly insecure. He also continues to pretend to be annoyed whenever Emil calls him “Mickey,” but every time the Czech man gleefully shouts his nickname, every single time he hears that upward lilt in Emil’s voice, Mickey’s heart splashes like a stone skipping over waves, and he has to swallow to get his heart out of his throat and back into his chest. Most of all, he won’t admit that Emil, who is twenty years old and still runs around the local toyshop insisting on buying every “batteries not included” robot toy and once almost broke a beautifully painted rocking horse by jumping on it, makes Michele Crispino so happy that there are nights when he stays awake just to watch Emil breathing and wonders how did I get so lucky ?
Mickey finishes chopping the meat and onions for meat sauce and puts it in a bowl, throwing the pasta into the pot of now boiling water.
He comes up behind Emil, putting his arms around Emil’s waist, kissing his ear. “I hope you like spaghetti, amore mio ,” he whispers.
Emil laughs, a loud laugh straight from his belly. “I like everything you make, Mickey,” he responds earnestly. Emil turns around, examining Mickey’s face.
“You have a spot of flour, right… there,” he says, pointing at a spot near Mickey’s lip.
A devilish idea pops into Mickey’s head.
“Then you’d best help me clean up,” he replies, pressing his lips onto Emil’s.
When Emil returns the kiss, - mmmmmmm . It’s the only thing going through Mickey’s head, that contentment.