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When Carl first chooses the movie, plucking it from an extensive library Markus has barely started listing off, he looks at Markus with that familiar glint in his eye that makes Markus’ LED whir blue—processing, analyzing; he thinks Carl’s trying to tell him something. Or maybe trying to show him something. Markus carries Carl onto the couch and settles him amongst the cushions, fluffing his pillows and rearranging his scarf, ever attentive in every way. He brings water, wine, and asks if Carl needs anything else. He plans to slip away as soon as the movie starts, so he can get a head start on tomorrow’s chores—he usually powers down while Carl’s sleeping, but now could be a chance for him to clean the house and prepare tomorrow’s breakfast. Except Carl pats the other side of the couch and says, “Stay.”
It doesn’t sound like an order. Carl’s commands never do. Markus flawlessly obeys them anyway. He answers, “Sure, Carl,” and sidles next to his master. He figures at least he can keep a better eye on Carl if he’s up close—it’s already late, and Carl will probably fall asleep before the movie ends. Markus has already turned the couch to face the television, and when Carl turns his gaze towards it, Markus seamlessly dims the lights and starts the show. A pleasant scene of two humans in a field of yellow grass blooms across the screen. Part of Markus watches them dance around each other, smiling and laughing.
The bulk of his consciousness watches Carl, because Carl’s more important than anything on any screen could ever be. Markus would like to think he’s come to appreciate most forms of art, guided by Carl’s encouragement and tutelage, but they’ll never mean to Markus what they do to Carl. The two fictitious humans seem to be having a lovely time, but Markus mainly cares if the one human beside him smiles—he keeps note of every little change in Carl’s posture and expression. He’s calmer than most humans Markus has come in contact with: more meditative, more serene, but he still lights up with the love scenes and frowns when the sad music plays. He’s a plethora of tiny details so intrinsically human. There are so many things that Markus could never replicate, even if Carl wanted him to.
Markus watches the heroine fall ever deeper in love with her childhood sweetheart, and he sees Carl’s face soften but feels nothing himself. When the man leaves for war, the women left behind falls to the ground and clutches her chest, sobbing disconsolately. Markus can recognize that she’s lonely. But Markus has never felt loneliness himself, because he’s always had Carl.
Then he starts to wonder if Carl’s lonely—it’s been years since his last tryst, and even that was shallow, fleeting. Carl speaks with such passion when he paints, but he has no such fire in his relationships. He used to have a dozen lovers when he was young. Markus has heard the stories. But Markus doesn’t know if Carl misses it—if he still longs to be loved.
Markus thinks he loves Carl, as much as he’s able. As much as any machine could. But it’s a different sort of thing. The query triggers a cascade of data that the current movie can’t contribute to, so Markus lets his mind scan thousands of ‘related titles’ in the same library.
In the blink of an eye, he downloads hundreds of philosophies and techniques. He doesn’t know if any of them will ever be of any use to him. Maybe Carl’s happy with the way things are, although most of the movies agree that humans simply can’t be happy alone, and Markus is all that Carl has. It’s a role Markus cherishes, in his own way. He’d like to think that he can be all Carl ever needs.
Following a common trope from dozens of examples, Markus stretches his arm out and hangs it over the back of the couch, effectively around Carl’s frail shoulders. He shifts a fraction closer, just enough that their bodies touch, that he can feel the warmth of Carl’s human skin right through his own borrowed jeans. Carl’s hands are folded neatly on his lap, sleeves rolled up just enough to see the intricate lines of his tattoos. Markus has lay in bed next to Carl on slow weekends and listened to the mesmerizing tales of every new image permanently engraved on Carl’s pale skin. Of all the humans Markus has met, Carl’s the most fascinating.
Carl’s losing steam, and Markus knows it. A little while longer, and Carl’s slumping down, leaning towards the crux of Markus’ shoulder—a familiar presence that must feel safe. Carl should know that he can lean on Markus any time, both figuratively and literally. Eventually, he does. His cheek falls to the broad expanse of Markus’ chest, and Markus gently wraps his arm around Carl’s brittle body, hand coming up to pet softly through Carl’s hair. Carl hums an appreciative note while his eyes flutter closed. Markus absently strokes Carl’s scalp like the heroine does when her lover returns, haggard and scarred, emotionally broken, but still the man she loves.
She spends a sensual scene tenderly scrubbing his wounds in an old-fashioned iron bathtub. There’s very little dialogue, and it gives Markus room to murmur, “You know that I would do anything for you, right?”
Carl hums a note of acknowledgement. He’s grown heavier, no longer holding himself up. A quick check shows twenty-two minutes left in the movie, but Markus doesn’t think he’ll make it. The woman slowly takes her soldier up to bed, lays him down, and they share an intimacy that Markus is programmed for but has never engaged. Carl’s eyes have opened just enough to see it. Markus scans his files and comes up with another subtlety that might make his intentions clear—he shifts his free hand to Carl’s knee. He repeats, “I would do anything.”
Carl’s body tenses. Markus can feel it as much as see it, and he instantly takes his hand back, knowing that he’s done something wrong. Carl lets out a ragged sigh before pushing up, no longer in Markus’ arms.
He casts Markus a frown and answers, “I’m aware that I can ask you for anything, Markus. But I shouldn’t, and I won’t.” It looks like he might say more, but the rest is swallowed in a yawn.
Markus tries to process. He can’t tell if that’s a firm rejection or simply Carl trying to protect him, as Carl so often does. There was a time when Carl refused his help in the washroom, but that was only human pride, and now Carl’s learned to accept Markus’ care. Apparently, not in all aspects. Carl seems to see that struggle in him and offers a sad smile.
“It’s alright.” He reaches out to pat Markus’ knee, and somehow, it’s nothing like the move that Markus just tried. It’s friendly, not patronizing, but like an adult to a child. Carl reminds him, “I’m old, Markus. I know you don’t like to hear it, but I am. I’ve lived a long, full life, and had my share of fun. That’s over now, and that’s fine. I appreciate what I have with you. You’re another son to me, one I didn’t let down quite so badly, and one I can take pride in. That’s more than enough.”
Markus isn’t so sure. But he loves Carl deeply, more than his wires and circuits should allow, and he’ll take the relationship in any form that Carl wants it. The movie characters have finished making love and are just lying together, enjoying that moment. Carl yawns again. Markus asks, “May I take you to bed platonically, then?”
Carl chuckles. His smile is beautiful, more than any painting. He casts a forlorn look at the movie but nods his head. Markus notes, “We can finish it tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it.”
The movie’s instantly paused. Markus flicks the screen off and leaves the lights low, quite able to make his way around Carl’s house in the dark. He turns to gently scoop Carl up into his arms, and then he’s lifting Carl off the couch.
He takes Carl upstairs and helps brush his teeth, undresses him, and tucks him into bed. Markus parks beside him but stays online for awhile, watching Carl chase dreams.