There was always something comforting about the dampness of the hot summer nights in New New York.
He loved the way Fry's skin would stick against his own silver exterior like a fevered child with a dewy forehead; sweaty, doughy arms around his middle with a crooked nose buried in the robot's neck. Humid breath would leave patches of warm condensation on his slick shoulder-piece, drooling lips dripping streaks through it here and there. Revolting. But Bender craved it, all of it; the thick, sweaty fingers resting lazily against his chassis and the salty-sweet smell of his warm flesh, (The kid smells like a toddler on Halloween, dammit-) and when the rare occasion would arise that Bender found himself alone on one of these more sultry evenings, he would often reach out to a pillow or a blanket to help recreate the feeling, the tender legs pushed between his own and the soft, damp tummy moving gently against the robot's hollow abdomen. But no matter how many times he could wrap his appendages around an old down-comforter or cushion, Bender never found it to be the same, not even close for that matter. He needed the higher temperature, the moisture, the snores and the movement or else it would do nothing but make him grip harder at the sheets and fill his chest with empty frustration because goddammit it just wasn't the same. Bender was lucky he didn't give off any sort of heat while he was powered down, otherwise Fry may have reconsidered letting him stay beside him on nights such as those. Luckier still, Fry didn't even question him when he'd proposed the sleeping arrangement after that time they were playing Sheriff And Deputy at two A.M. a few summers back, (a game Bender would proudly crown himself "bestest" at,) and Fry had passed out on the couch next to the robot with Slurm on his face and a toy revolver tucked in his boxers. That was the night Bender fell even harder for the redhead himself, and discovered the magnetizing (disgusting) sensation of having the warm body of someone he needed and adored right there, in his grasp.
Tonight, some unwatered flowers from Fry's August birthday the week prior sweltered and curled in on themselves, deep green and wilting with neglect on the windowsill. Stale, hot air floated past them, hardly rustling the curtains, and hovered around Fry and Bender's makeshift bed, making the redhead shift and go flush in the face while he slept. Bender wasn't quite powered down just yet, though. He was still allowing himself to card his stumpy digits through Fry's greasy hair and revel in the feel of it. Moments like these were ones he had to himself, and not another soul. Not even Fry, though he was typically the main event on the stage of his consciousness. Yet these thoughts were still entirely his own, as he would never in his life admit why he loved to sleep with that stupid meatbag in his arms. Hell, Fry still thought Bender insisted on this because the robot wanted to "use him as a human sheild incase the pigs come lookin' for my evaded taxes and orphan meat and whatnot." He had no clue how bad Bender ached for the closeness, the intamacy of his affectionate, sleepy touch. It made Bender feel loved, and that was all he ever really wanted, (well, besides being the ever-obeyed supreme ruler of the universe, of course.)
Hey, it wasn't the weirdest thing they did together, to say the least.
The robot slowly pondered if the next day they could go get a drink down at the pub again, and let Bender monopolize the conversation about how to hotwire a hovercar fast when ditching the authorities. Maybe he could give the dope some lessons on Amy's convertable. Then perhaps Fry could pay him due praise and shower him with the undivided attention he deserved... Bender began to doze off happily to these beautiful thoughts, probably imagining a scenario where Fry would end up head over heels for him before the day was out. Right when his systems were about the shut down, the robot snuggled just a bit deeper under the sheets, into the redhead's sticky embrace, feeling another curl of that tingly feeling he loved in his chest while Fry slept, completely unaware of the thoughts in his best friend's mechanical mind.
Yes, there was always something comforting about the dampness of the hot summer nights in New New York.
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