Archive of Our Own

I.

“I cannot survive on canned fruit alone, Robbie.”

Robbie huffs a sigh. Less than twenty-four hours into this… thing, and Sportacus is already launching a personal attack upon his dietary habits.

Still, he’s not completely without ammunition in this particularly absurd battle. He draws himself up to his full height with a smirk. “You seemed to enjoy those pineapple rings just fine.”

Sportacus’ cheeks turn an interesting shade of pink, his moustache twitching. “Those didn’t have any… any added sugar. And you, ah, made it worth my while.” He coughs nervously.

In his more self-aware moments, Robbie can admit that he finds Sportanerd’s tendency towards the blushing-virginal somewhat… endearing. But now he knows it’s coupled with a kinky streak four miles wide. The man’s a Jekyll in the streets, and a Hyde in the sheets.

Get him into bed – or on a workbench, or on the floor, or in the Immobiliser 3000, or on any kind of vaguely sex-appropriate surface – and the berserker sex god switch gets flipped. Once he’s done – bam, the switch goes back off, the stuttering damsel returns, and he won’t so much as look in Robbie’s direction until he has at least somewhat covered his shame.

In any case – Robbie is quickly coming to the realisation that ‘endearing’ and ‘infuriating’ are not as far from each other as he might have assumed. Especially given Sportacus’ insistence on only eating fresh fruit. Personally, Robbie can’t see what could possibly be the difference, and the fact that he even has canned fruit is a miracle in itself – remnants from some long-distant, ill-advised experimentation that was abandoned before it even began. So what if the second ingredient in most of them is sugar, followed by a dizzying list of numbers, followed by other, different types of sugar? So what if the peaches expired sometime back when perestroika was still a thing?

To Robbie’s way of thinking, Sportaflop is simply being intolerably fussy. Nonetheless, he can see where all of this is leading: into his clothes, out of his lair, and into the sickeningly bright sunshine beyond.

And while, for the first time in his life, Robbie has actually begun to appreciate the benefits of Sportacus’ crazed over-activity, it’s also true that he now has aches and pains in places he doesn’t even want to contemplate, and the thought of climbing the ladder in his current state of being is not a tempting one. Nonetheless, Sportacus, for all his blushing and squirming, can also be extremely… determined when he decides he wants something. And there’s a look in his eye that tells Robbie that he’s going to get his fresh fruit, or die trying.

“Fine,” Robbie says, tossing aside the blanket and striding across the room to where he thinks Sportacus had flung... well, at least some of his clothes. “We’ll go get you your sportscandy, then.”

Sportacus sits up, blinking at him, and, incorrigibly, holding the blanket up to his chin – as if he might have something Robbie hasn’t already seen, repeatedly and in great detail, over the past few hours.

“I’ll only be a moment, Robbie,” he says. “You really don't need to –”

“Oh, yes I do,” Robbie says, hopping to put first one leg into his trousers and then the other.

After all, he knows what’s up there. Up there, there’s brats falling off swing sets and kittens in trees; there’s the Mayor toppling from ladders and Ms Busybody's insatiable need to have her fence repaired.

And Robbie has precisely zero faith in Sportadoof’s attention span to recall him back to the lair once he’s finished dealing with each and every one of these distractions, in order to... to pick up where they left off.

“Uh….” Sportacus is looking nervously about the room. “Where are my clothes?”

For one brief, shining moment, Robbie contemplates telling Sportacus that he had them all burned; but the apparently sincere distress on the idiot’s face makes him relent, and he fishes them out from behind the dog house, throwing them vaguely in the direction of Sportacus’ stupid head.

Robbie sighs hugely and acquiesces to Sportacus’ ridiculous sense of modesty by turning away as he gets dressed. As he stands there, staring into the bleak darkness beyond, he wonders why in the name of all that is holy he has embarked upon this… this… incredibly imprudent course of action.

At least until he sneaks a peek out of the corner of his eye, just as Sportacus is bending over to pull up his pants.

Oh. Right.

That. That’s why.

II.

If Robbie had been under the impression before that Sportacus obtained all of his sportscandy by assaulting Lazy Town’s unsuspecting apple trees, he has now been sadly disabused of this notion.

He doesn’t think he has ever spent this much time in a supermarket before in his life. Everything he’s ever needed, he’s always been able to get home delivered. But apparently, this just won’t do for Sportacus. Ohhhh, no. He has to hold a personal meet-and-greet session with every individual apple, pear, banana, mango, lychee, rambutan, and feijoa he intends to consume.

He wouldn’t mind so much, except that Sportacus insists on trying to introduce him to each one.

“Hey, Robbie!” Sportacus materialises in front of him, wide-eyed, holding up two indistinguishable nectarines and projecting an air of extreme intensity. “Which one do you think I should get?”

Robbie tries very, very hard to refrain from clawing at his own face. “I don’t know! I don’t care! Get both of them!”

“Wow.” Sportacus tosses one of the nectarines up and down, grinning broadly. “What a great idea! Thanks!”

Robbie’s jaw cracks audibly, powered by the sheer force of exasperation. “Don’t mention it,” he manages to grit out through his teeth.

As Sportacus bounds away, Robbie finds himself, once again, asking how he could be in this situation: walking the aisle of the fresh fruit section of the supermarket, with his vest buttoned up wrong and missing one spat, pushing a trolleyload of sportscandy around for a man who was, until about twenty-four hours ago, his sworn enemy.

Robbie wants to go home. He’s tired, and his ankle is getting cold.

The truth of the matter, much as Robbie abhors to admit it, is that he honestly hadn’t thought this far ahead. There was no plan for this – something that is only becoming more and more obvious now that filthy, amazing fantasy is colliding with cold hard reality at dangerous speeds.

The nauseating zest with which Sportabounce embraces even the most mundane minutiae of everyday life is, he thinks, bad enough.

Exhibit #2 in the stark reality shitshow that is his current existence, however, is indescribably worse, and comes in the form of the two-for-one bargain that nobody asked for: the Mayor and Ms Busybody.

Specifically, the Mayor and Ms Busybody, plus the butternut squash that Bessie is currently caressing.

“Oh, Milford!” She holds the squash up; there’s a suggestive glimmer in her eye, and a suggestive nausea in Robbie’s stomach. “Does this remind you of anything?”

“Oh, Ms Busybody!” The Mayor giggles girlishly. “Not in the supermarket! People might see you!”

Bessie titters. “That’s never stopped you before!”

“Oh! Oh, my!” The Mayor looks positively feverish, bouncing up and down on the balls of his oversized feet as he looks about furtively.

There’s a sudden pause, and Robbie attempts to blend in with the eggplants. It does no good: the Mayor’s head swivels, and Robbie is pinned beneath his gaze. For a long moment, there is silence. And then he hears the words again, this time loaded with a whole new world of implications:

“Oh, my.”

The Mayor goggles at him, his bulging eyes and gaping mouth giving him an oddly piscine appearance. Staring into his face is like staring into the abyss, and Robbie wishes it would stop staring back and just hurry up and swallow him already.

He is suddenly, hideously aware that Sportacus is way too close to him, pressed up behind him and peering around his shoulder to better scrutinise the zucchini that has somehow found its way into Robbie’s unthinking hands.

And clearly, Ms Busybody’s overactive scandal sense is tingling, because she has found her way to Milford’s side in record time, her eyes darting backwards and forwards and, Robbie thinks, into things that haven’t even happened yet.

“Oh! Why hello, Mr Rotten! Hello, Sportacus! Fancy seeing you here!” Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Together.”

“Hi, Ms Busybody! Hi, Mr Mayor!” Sportacus practically yells. Robbie feels the sudden jab of Sportacus’ elbow in his ribs, and he twists his mouth into a grimace that could, if one were feeling generous, be said to approximate a smile. He thrusts a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Sportacus’ manically grinning face.

“What he said.”

Suddenly, Robbie wonders why on God’s green earth he decided to accompany Sportacus on this little jaunt. Clearly he had to have been addled in the brain – with the gift of hindsight, waiting a few hours for Sportacus to get his distractible ass back to the lair is sounding like by far the lesser of two evils when compared to this.

In the silence that follows, Ms Busybody looks them both up and down with great deliberation, a calculating gleam to her eyes as her gossip’s brain computes their proximity to one another, the zucchini that Robbie now can’t put down without looking even more guilty, the way that Sportacus is practically vibrating with nervous energy, and Robbie’s irritated slouch. Evidently the conclusion she comes to pleases her greatly, as she laughs brightly.

“Well, isn’t this delightful! So nice to see the two of you becoming friends.”

Robbie’s fingers tighten around the zucchini. He should have known this would happen. Why hadn’t he known this would happen?

An air of normalcy. That’s what he has to aim for. La-di-da, everything’s fine, nothing to see here, just the local hero and villain out shopping together for the most phallic of everyday comestibles.

He affects the most blasé shrug in his repertoire, forcing his expression into a light and breezy smile. He can do this. He’s fine. He’s the greatest thespian Lazy Town has ever known.

His face contorts into a hideous rictus that is probably not conveying the sense of indifference he’d been going for.

“Yes. Friends.”

He coerces the words out through his clamped jaw, and really, he never thought he could be so desperate to have someone believe that he and Sportakook are actually on friendly terms. Just two guys, hanging out amongst the avocadoes.

He feels the heavy weight of Sportacus’ arm around his shoulders, strong fingers digging into his bicep a little more than necessary. Strong fingers that just last night – or was it this morning? – were digging into other places, leaving bruises, moving downwards and gripping –

Bessie tilts her head slightly, and Robbie goes rigid.

Oh God, don’t think about that, she knows, she can see into your mind, hers is the all-seeing eye, don’t think about it, don’t think about how you could give her all the answers to everything she’s ever wanted to know about Sportacus in excruciating detail –

“Just between us,” Bessie leans forward, speaking conspiratorially, “I did always wonder when you were going to start dating….”

“We’re not dating!”

A sudden, echoing crack announces the demise of the zucchini in Robbie’s hands, snapped in twain by the sheer power of Robbie’s unending humiliation. The Mayor is staring at him in a strange combination of horror and understanding.

Dimly, he is aware of Sportacus shaking his head in regret.

“We’ll have to buy that, now.”

III.

For Robbie, most of life’s happiest moments have come as he’s been ejected from his series of tubes and landed in his oversized armchair. But none of them have been quite so sweet as this one, filled with overwhelming relief as it is.

To be honest, he’s not quite sure how they even made it back here. All he remembers is his life flashing before his eyes, then Sportacus tugging him along by his elbow until they got to the checkout, the blue idiot insisting on fishing around in his well-hidden pockets for the exact change with which to pay for his sportscandy. After that was a brief moment of dismay at the fact that they hadn’t had time to pick up any cake fixings, and then just a fog of despair that hadn’t started to lift until this moment.

Sportacus had been strangely quiet for the most part, which had been a relief. Maybe a little too quiet. Now that he thinks about it, he’s never really encountered a quiet Sportacus before, and the thought sends a shiver up his spine for no reason he can put his finger on.

Speaking of – the man tumbles out of the tube, momentum pulling him into a series of forward rolls before he springs to his feet in front of the recliner, arms akimbo.

Now, where were they?

“Mmm.” Robbie reaches up with both hands and twists his fingers in Sportacus’ shirt, yanking him down onto the recliner and bringing their mouths together in a kiss, hot and messy and uncaring. He’s at the point now where he’s pretty sure that this is all real and not the result of his somewhat ill-advised coffee binge, but there are still moments where he’s convinced he’s hallucinating. How could something this perfect possibly be real?

Sportacus returns the kiss with the kind of enthusiasm that Robbie would find revolting in any other circumstance, his hessian bag of groceries tumbling, forgotten, to the floor. Robbie wends his hand up under Sportacus’ shirt, pulling him even closer, if possible, when suddenly Sportacus stops. It’s a bit like kissing a dead fish, but Robbie is nothing if not persistent beyond what weaker beings might consider all good sense, and so he continues.

“Robbie.” Sportacus has pulled back a little, now, though it obviously pains him. “I’ve been thinking –”

Robbie puts a finger over Sportacus’ lips, curling the tip of it inside his mouth. “No thinking. That’s dangerous.”

For a moment, Robbie thinks he’s won: Sportacus blinks, swallowing, his eyes flickering down to Robbie’s lips – but then, he seems to give himself a shake, and pulls back once more.

“Robbie, I really think we should talk about this.”

Robbie flops back, his neck going slack, his head hitting the back of his recliner, staring up at the distant ceiling. He’s tempted to ask it why this is happening to him – but then, the question is futile. Of course this is happening. Of course Sportaflop wants to talk. Of course this had to be too good to be true.

“Fine,” he growls, lifting his hands and rubbing circles on his temples with his fingers. “Fine. Talk, then.”

Sportadork can talk, but Robbie never said anything about listening.

Sportacus coughs slightly, re-arranges something in his pants, and then says, “Did you mean what you said back there?”

What?

Robbie lowers his head, fixing Sportacus with an incredulous stare as he racks his brains, trying to remember what, exactly, it was that he might have said.

He has no memory of it. Everything is a perfect blank. He doesn’t recall having said anything at all. But then again, he can well believe that everything from the time he got up this morning to the moment he emerged into the lair just now has been lost to some kind of hysterical amnesia, so maybe he did.

But what?

From the way Sportacus is twitching and fidgeting, it’s clear he said something.

“I… might… have?” he ventures cautiously.

Oh God, did I ask him to marry me?

He stares up at Sportacus in mute terror. He’ll die before he lets Sportacus make an honest man out of him.

He waits, silent, for the axe to fall, but Sportakook doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to enlighten him and seal his fate, one way or another.

A diversion. Yes. That’s what I need.

Maybe he can just induce Sportacus to forget all about this little mistake and get back to doing what they came here for.

He reaches up again, hoping his panic isn’t too obvious in the way he hooks his index fingers into the waistband of Sportacus’ pants and pulls him forwards until he’s forced to lean over, propping himself up on the recliner with his forearms.

“Robbie….”

Robbie ignores him, closing his eyes and raising his head to kiss him. But Sportacus isn’t where he should be, and his lips find nothing but cold air.

“Robbie.” Sportacus’ voice is firmer now, and when Robbie opens his eyes, he finds him looking down upon him, his face stern. “Maybe we shouldn’t… I mean, if we’re not dating….”

Robbie gapes at him. “What?”

Confusion reigns on Sportacus’ face. “That’s what you said.”

What in the name of God?

Is this what Sportacow has been nattering about?

Robbie still can’t remember the incident he’s apparently got his ridiculously tight pants in a twist about, but… now that Sportacus mentions it… maybe he did say something to that effect back in the supermarket, as the Mayor and Ms Busybody had flayed him alive with their eyes.

But so what if he did? What does that have to do with literally anything?

“So?” Robbie asks, sputtering.

Sportacus is slowly disentangling himself, arranging his clothes into some semblance of order. He shakes his head, and, if Robbie didn’t know any better, he’d say the idiot is actually looking ashamed of himself.

“I’m sorry, Robbie. This is all my fault. I should have been more responsible.”

Robbie scrambles to sit up, his face contorting in disbelief. What the hell is going on?

He staggers to his feet. “What about me suggests that I am at any time in favour of responsibility?”

Sportacus only shakes his head again, looking guiltily down at his shoes. “I’ve done this all wrong. I should have… courted you. Wooed you.”

Robbie thinks he may be having a stroke. Maybe he massaged his temples too hard, and now he’s ruptured an artery. He pinches the bridge of his nose, instead. There has to be a way out of this that doesn’t involve – ugh – dating.

In desperation, Robbie asks, “Do the past five years of carrying me around and catching me whenever I fall and clutching me to your manly bosom not count as –” he swallows back bile “– wooing?”

“I’m a hero. I would’ve done that for anybody.”

Robbie struggles against the instinctive wave of jealousy, but he’s never been a strong swimmer. “Oh, anybody, huh?”

Sportacus’ eyes widen in mild alarm. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

Robbie crosses his arms and flops back down, hunching over in his chair, readying himself for a good huff. “No, that’s fine. I understand. Apparently I’m just anybody now.”

Alarm bells are now definitely going off in Sportacus’ mainly empty head – which is exactly what Robbie wants.

“I didn’t – but – I – what –” Sportacus closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and breathing out slowly. Then he opens them again, looking beseechingly at Robbie with those big baby blues, all wide and innocent.

If Robbie didn’t know better, he’d think that Sportadweeb was trying to manipulate him, but he knows full well that the elf is too stupid for that by half. It’s at least part of the reason why Robbie fell for him in the first place.

That, and his penchant for bending over while wearing extremely tight pants.

“Robbie, how can I make it up to you?”

Robbie smiles widely. He’s prepared to be magnanimous.

“Well, I can think of one thing.” He gestures expansively at his own crotch, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Sportacus stares at Robbie’s nether regions, licking his lips. Robbie shifts slightly to better show off the goods, and Sportacus’ eyes follow the movement as if magnetised.

He takes a half-step towards him, and triumph blooms in Robbie’s chest – just before Sportacus, in an apparently mighty act of will, wrenches himself back, turning his head away and holding his hands out to ward off temptation, as if Robbie is Bathsheba at her bath.

“No, Robbie,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I know you’re trying to be nice, but I have to do this right! It’s just not fair on you otherwise.”

Robbie stares incredulously at Sportacus’ averted head for a long moment, before he slowly crosses his legs, his arms folding back over his chest. There is clearly no getting out of this: if he ever wants to get laid again, he’s clearly going to have to acquiesce to Sportadork’s insistence on – ugh – a date.

“Whatever,” he mutters.

IV.

What was the one thing his mother had always said to him?

Baking soda and vinegar can be used as a cheap alternative to most conventional cleaning agents.

… No, the other thing.

Never stick it in crazy, son.

That was it. But no, stuck it in crazy he had, and now he’s here, in Lazy Town’s one and only restaurant (zero Michelin stars, how delightful), with a nervous sports elf kneeling before him and tying a corsage to his wrist with trembling fingers.

Sportacus clears his throat, blushing mightily. “Do you like it?”

Why would he like the stupid thing? Admittedly, the colour scheme is okay – a range of deep purples and blues that don’t look entirely terrible with his suit – and he’s always thought that orchids have a pleasingly sinister quality to them.

In fact, now that he looks at it, it’s clear that Sportacus has put a lot of thought into it, and, horror of horrors, he’s actually quite touched.

He sniffs. “It’s okay. I guess.” If he says anything else, he may throw up into his mouth, so he leaves it at that.

Sportacus beams, and Robbie can only come to the conclusion that he was expecting something far worse. Something claws at Robbie’s stomach that feels suspiciously like guilt, but he pushes it away. This stupid date was all Sportaloon’s idea, so he can deal with whatever the fallout may be.

Sportacus gets up and leads Robbie to their table, his hand fluttering lightly on the small of his back. From the beach below, Robbie can hear the sound of the ocean as it washes against the sand. The sun is shining, glittering on the perfect blue of the foam-laced waves, and the shore rolls into the distance like a skein of pale gold. The scent of the air, carried on the lightest of breezes, is sharp and briny, clean and fresh.

It’s all absolutely revolting.

Sportacus dashes past Robbie to pull out his chair for him, which, Robbie thinks, is the least he can do, considering that he’s dragged Robbie all the way out here. And also considering that last night hadn’t gone at all the way Robbie had envisioned it would, and he’d had to spend the whole night alone, getting intimately re-acquainted with himself. Which just wasn’t the same.

Robbie glares sourly across the table at his date.

Sportacus looks about as well-rested as Robbie himself does, moustache slightly less perky than usual, eyes a touch red beneath lids that are fighting a valiant battle against gravity.

A sudden bolt of understanding arcs its way through Robbie’s brain, and all at once he feels his mood brighten. If it takes one to know one, then Robbie knows for a rock-solid, scientifically-provable fact that Sportacus stayed up waaay past 8:08 last night, whacking it and regretting every life decision that had led him to that moment.

He smirks. “Sleep well?”

Sportacus glances up, and, God help him, actually looks guilty.

Maybe this dating thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Robbie settles in, preparing to subject Sportacus to some good old-fashioned torment, when he is rudely interrupted by an overly-energetic, moustachioed idiot with a ridiculous accent. And it’s not even the one he wants to sleep with.

“Sportacus! It’s so good to see you!”

Sportacus jumps to his feet, and the two men embrace, the one in the absurd chef’s outfit planting an overripe kiss on each of Sportacus’ cheeks. Sportacus has the audacity to look happy about this outrageous display of public indecency, laughing and hugging the man.

“Chef Pablo! Thank you so much for cooking for us today!” Sportacus enthuses, clapping him on the shoulder. Robbie twitches. Ten minutes into their date, and Sportajerk’s already spent more time touching this other imbecile than he’s spent touching Robbie.

Robbie cranes his neck, looking around for someone he can grope in full view of Sportacus. See how he likes it when Robbie feels up the Mayor in front of God and everybody.

The other tables are empty, though, and Sportacus grins. “Thank you so much for letting me book out the entire restaurant, Chef Pablo! I really appreciate it!”

… They’re the only ones here? Robbie’s not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, he’s glad to be away from prying eyes. On the other, it means he can’t show off that he’s the only person around here who’s managed to land the local slice of beefcake.

Hmm. Robbie does like peace and quiet… but he really likes gloating.

Chef Pablo Fantastico laughs gaily, his preposterous voice booming out way louder than could possibly be considered necessary. “Anything for a friend, Sportacus! Especially when it involves passion… and love!”

Robbie stares up at him, his eyes narrowing.

Is he… flirting with Sportacus? Is this meddling Mediterranean menace really trying to steal his man – his date – his – whatever Sportadork is – while Robbie is right there, looking dapper as all get-out?

No way. This home-wrecker is going down.

Robbie fastidiously rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, doing his best to ignore the nattering and inappropriate touching going on across the table. Sportachaste will probably faint at the sight of his bared wrists, out on display for all the world to see.

You brazen hussy, he’ll whisper huskily, and then he’ll sweep Robbie up into his arms and haul him to the nearest building, where he’ll kick down the door and drop Robbie bodily onto the dining room table, ravishing him mightily atop the splintered remains until they both pass out.

Robbie positions himself carefully, luxuriating back upon his chair, long legs crossed, chin resting upon his corsage-accentuated hand. He clears his throat pointedly.

Sportacus jumps – the mark of a guilty soul – and sits himself back down. But not, Robbie notes, before he gives the chef one last hug. Robbie’s eyes zero in and lock onto the chef’s, and he very deliberately mouths the word mine.

The chef merely looks bemused, and Robbie takes a moment to re-evaluate. He’s clearly a better actor than Robbie had given him credit for. Maybe he’ll be a more dangerous adversary than he had anticipated.

Pablo, clearly beating a tactical retreat, waddles off to the kitchen to go make the… whatever it is Sportacus has planned for them.

It comes to him after a moment or two that Sportacus is still blabbering on.

“Chef Pablo came all the way here just to cook for us. Just because I asked him to!” Sportacus beams at Robbie from across the table. “Can you believe it?”

Robbie looks at Sportacus’ muscles, bulging as they are beneath his shirt, his biceps glistening in the afternoon sun.

“Yes.”

Sportacus laughs. “You’re right, Robbie – he is a very nice guy, after all.”

Robbie bites back his first retort. And his second. And his third. Fourth. Fifth. Anything he could possibly say right now would just lead to Sportacus leaving town forever, and taking the shameless chef with him.

He can see it all so vividly: the two of them smiling at each other over a nauseatingly healthy meal, a small white Pomeranian cavorting at their heels while they throw their heads back and laugh. The white-hatted buffoon pouring Sportacus another wine (non-alcoholic, of course), while Sportacheat blushes and ducks his head coyly beneath the warm glow of candlelight. Pablo tenderly untying the pastel-pink sweater from around Sportacus’ neck. The two of them going at it hammer and tongs on their glorious poolside patio, the bellowed words passion… and LOVE! echoing around the neighbourhood.

… No, best to keep his mouth shut.

Just to make sure, Robbie grabs a slice of bread, cramming it into his mouth until the whole thing is concertinaed into the back of his throat.

Sportacus looks concerned. “Uh… Robbie? Are you okay?”

Holding up one finger for silence, Robbie tries to swallow. Gags mightily. Decides to go for the gold, and sets about stuffing a second piece of bread in there to keep the first one company. That should probably be enough – he figures Sportacus’ crystal will probably start going off if he tries to fit anything else in there. Although, if that were true, then it would have been going off loud enough to deafen the whole town the other night when –

His train of thought is interrupted as Chef Pablo arrives, placing their food down on the table with a dramatic flourish.

“Et voilà!” Pablo says, kissing the tips of his fingers. “Food prepared with passion… and love.”

Robbie would rather die than eat anything that has this idiot’s passion and love in it, but the bread in his mouth is preventing him from expressing this sentiment. Instead, he simply stares up at Pablo with a doughy scowl that could be saying anything, from Get lost to Observe my lack of gag reflex.

Apparently Pablo gets the message, because he bustles away without so much as a second glance. Probably off to contemplate his obvious inferiority. Robbie would almost feel sorry for him, but… nah.

“Uh, Robbie?” Sportacus looks distinctly uncomfortable. “You, ah… have something in your teeth.”

He does?

Oh. The bread. Right.

He finds himself in a bit of a quandary. Spit, or swallow? He’s never had to think about it before.

His salvation comes in the somewhat unlikely and highly regrettable form of a loud, high-pitched, screechy voice.

“Hi, Sportacus!”

His heart drops into his stomach, and his head turns of its own volition to see two small faces leering at him from over the fence, one surrounded by ridiculous pink hair, the other framed by three oddly-placed pigtails.

“Hi, Robbie!”

He waves indifferently, giving them something that approximates a pained smile around the two slices of bread that have since merged into one small loaf within the confines of his mouth.

“Hi, girls!” Sportacus sounds genuinely glad to see them – not relieved, definitely not relieved – and Robbie takes advantage of the distraction to unclog his oesophagus, hacking a little as he drags out a rather impressive bready mass. He tosses it beneath a neighbouring table and pastes on his best fake smile, turning to rejoin the conversation.

“Out at the beach?” Sportacus asks cheerily, though the two girls themselves seem to be more interested in staring at the plate of food on the table. Robbie chances a glance down at it, and is mortified to see that, aside from everything on it being horrifically healthy, Chef Pablo has moulded the shape of a heart out of… whatever these red things are.

Robbie stares at it in disgust, before dragging his eyes back to the two diminutive interlopers. The pink one is giggling quietly behind her hand; the loud one has no such pretense at social niceties and is openly guffawing and jabbing her elbow into her friend’s ribs.

Robbie scowls at them, wondering what exactly their problem is, before looking down at the plate once again. His eyes hover over it. Something clicks in his head. Horrible realisation dawns.

Clearly, the girls have misinterpreted Chef Pablo’s bald-faced attempt to steal his boyf… no… his… his nemesis with benefits as some kind of sappy gesture on his part.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” he blurts out frantically. “We just happen to be eating a meal in the same room. At the same table.”

“Suuuuuure, Robbie,” Loud Girl says.

“It’s true,” Robbie tries to insist, but his heart just isn’t in it. He can feel the life draining from him. If the earth swallowed him whole right at this moment, he would feel nothing but gratitude.

“I wish I was dead,” he mutters.

“What was that?” Sportacus asks, turning to him.

“I love this bread!” Robbie shoves another whole piece in his mouth before he can say anything else, effectively excusing him from taking any further part in this farce.

In any case, the girls, having said their farewells, are making their giggling, skipping way towards the beach, leaving them in blessed peace.

Robbie, realising Sportacus is looking at him, actually swallows the bread this time. He forces it down dry with only minimal choking, pointedly pretending not to notice Sportacus shifting the bread basket out of his reach.

“So.” Robbie clears his throat hesitantly, and not just because he’s jammed three pieces of bread into it within the past few minutes.

Where do they go from here? Yesterday morning, he’d been at the heights of ecstasy; now, everything is awkward and terrible. He’d almost prefer to be stuck in some kind of small space with Sportacus again – at least that way the idiot would be forced to make some sort of bodily contact with him, rather than hanging back and being all gentlemanly.

Maybe he’ll just have to suck it up and play the game. If Sportacelibate wants to be nice and have romance before he’ll give it up again, well, Robbie can pretend to be interested. There’s not a lot he won’t do for a good roll in the hay, really, and the – multiple, seemingly-endless – rolls he’d had with Sportacus had been jaw-droppingly spectacular.

Sportacus taps a nervous ditty on the tabletop with his fingers. “Do you like it? Chef Pablo made it up specially when I asked him to.”

… Oh.

“So it’s like that, is it? Your good friend Chef Pablo just goes around making you romantic heart-shaped dishes?” He slouches further into his chair. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Robbie, I – what?” Sportacus looks utterly befuddled, and normally there’d be a part of Robbie that could begrudgingly admit that it’s a cute look, but now he’s too cranky for even that. “You silly! He made it for you!”

He snaps upright in bewilderment. “For… me?”

“That’s right!” Sportacus looks more cheery again, but now Robbie is just perplexed.

“Chef Pablo… likes me?!”

Well, that’s going to throw a meteor-sized spanner in the works. Normally he’d be flattered, maybe even interested. But normally he’s also approximately three thousand per cent more desperate than he has been recently, and really, now that he’s had a taste of what is possible, nothing else will ever compare. Pablo would only ever be a cheap cream puff to Sportacus’ decadent chocolate gâteau – a fun bit of light fluff, but finished in five seconds, and likely to leave a vague sense of nausea in his wake.

Nope, Sportacus has ruined him for anyone else. Forever. And that is really, really depressing.

Another thing Sportacus has going in his favour: he’s so easily flummoxed. A moment ago, he had been smiling; now he’s just downright baffled. A key component of villainy is the ability to get under a hero’s skin, and, if nothing else, Robbie has been spectacularly successful at eliciting the whole spectrum of confusion from the bouncing blue idiot.

“No!” Sportacus raises his arms in frustration, looking dangerously close to pulling at his own hair. “I mean – yes, Chef Pablo likes you, as a friend, but – not like that!” He sighs, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “I like you like that. I asked Chef Pablo if he would make the food in a heart for you. From me.”

Robbie is silent, staring down at the lovingly-crafted heart in the middle of the plate.

Sportacus had done this… for him?

The pieces of gross red seedy fruit-thing glisten in the sun, doused as they are in olive oil, and arranged on a bed of – ugh – salad. But somehow, Robbie isn’t too concerned right now with the revolting healthiness of the food in front of him.

“Do you like it?” Sportacus asks, and when Robbie manages to bring himself to glance up into his eyes, they’re brimming with tentative hope.

Steeling himself, he takes a deep breath, picks up his fork and stabs it into the red thing, before lifting it to his mouth.

His tastebuds cry out for mercy and his stomach roils in horror, but he forces himself to chew and swallow the thing, and actually keep it down.

The look on Sportacus’ face is worth it. His smile is blindingly brilliant, and Robbie feels his stomach flutter. He tells himself that it’s just indigestion from having consumed health food.

Sportadweeb leans in conspiratorially, close enough that Robbie can see every detail of his face – the smile lines around his eyes, the strong lines of his jaw, the tiny tuft of hair peeking out from beneath the ridiculous blue hat that Sportacus apparently thinks is appropriate date wear. Robbie mirrors his movement, leaning in close, and from here he can take in the smell of the sea, the perfume of the orchids, the heady scent of Sportacus himself.

Sportacus lowers his voice to a whisper. “Make sure to save room for dessert. I ordered it with extra whipped cream, just for you.”

That’s it.

Robbie is in love.

V.

No matter how many times he tries to tell himself he meant to do this, Robbie’s capacity for self-deception will only stretch so far.

Fine: he’s prepared to admit that, okay, Sportaloser might have some good points after all, that perhaps he can bring himself to spend time in the same room as the over-active idiot while they’re both fully clothed, and maybe he didn’t have a wholly terrible time at Pablo Blandtastico’s restaurant the other day. What he did not sign on for is plucking the petals off some of Lazy Town’s sickeningly abundant flowers while wandering around a field; contemplating which kind of sportscandy, were the elf to ask him to eat some, might not make him immediately ill; and staring dreamily at the blue icing on his cake because it reminds him somewhat of the colour of Sportacus’ eyes.

Moreover, when he’s trying to come up with yet another dastardly plan to eliminate all forms of movement from Lazy Town forever, he just can’t seem to concentrate.

He looks down.

The words Mr Sportacus Rotten cover the entire piece of purple notepaper sitting on his lap. The only parts that don’t feature it are the parts he’s drawn tiny little love hearts on.

He tears the piece of paper off the notepad with a hiss, scrunching it up into a ball and hurling it as far across the room as he can. It describes a perfect arc, peaking momentarily before descending at speed about three feet from where it started.

Hmm. Maybe Sportacus would be willing to teach him how to throw. He’d have to stand behind Robbie and wrap his big, brawny arms around him so that he gets his technique just right. Make sure that every part of his body is moving in perfect synchrony. Help Robbie with his warm-up stretches, and make sure he gets an adequate rub-down afterwards.

Robbie glances back down at his notebook. The fresh new page on top has somehow found itself adorned with a repeating motif of Mr & Mr Rotten-Sportacus, and he’s pleased to discover that his patented RR logo looks even better as RR-S.

He smiles fondly, opening up to yet another new page. Sketches a gargantuan heart attack of a wedding cake, festooned with a dazzling range of sportscandies – well, okay, four different kinds, but that’s at least two more than he could identify last week – and ornaments the upper layer with little figurines of the two of them.

Robbie’s figurine is bedecked in a dashing tux and looks unbearably handsome, while the Sportacus, of course, wears his usual blue tracksuit, with bulges in all the right places. The Sportacus figure is only about two heads shorter than the Robbie figure; love has made Robbie generous.

He shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “Robbie, my friend, you’ve got it bad.”

VI.

The clouds drift above him, a sky-borne ballet dancing upon the lightest of breezes.

Robbie sighs contentedly. The past few weeks have been a blur of ecstasy – of bashful hand-holding and long, lingering stares, of coy games of footsie and disgustingly sappy attempts at hand-feeding each other.

He feels better than he can ever remember having felt before. He’s having the most delightful dreams; he’s eating well; he’s getting to sleep while the sun is still tucked away in bed. Ms Busybody said that he was glowing, and he didn’t even plot her untimely demise in retaliation.

Sportacus’ plan to woo him seems to be showing no signs of slowing down – he’s taken Robbie out somewhere every single day.

There was the daybreak ride in a hot air balloon that Sportacus had gotten from… somewhere, just the two of them and the birds and the sun’s first rays breaking over distant mountains, and Sportacus letting Robbie cling to him whenever there was the slightest sway.

Then there was the pottery class, the poorly-thrown, purple-and-blue-glazed proof of which has pride of place in Robbie’s lair.

Sportacus had even asked Robbie to surprise him with a date of his choice, which was how they’d ended up at the front row of the drive-in, snuggled together with a giant bag of popcorn in Robbie’s bulldozer, while Stiggy’s horn had tooted incessantly from behind.

Now, here they are, on a blanket in the field behind his billboard, just having finished what Robbie would call an almost tolerable lunch. The sun is shining, the grass is green, and everything is perfect.

Sure, Sportacus seems a little quiet, but, thinking back, Robbie realises that’s been par for the course lately.

His brow furrows. Now that he really puts his mind to it, it seems to Robbie as if Sportaloon has been acting a little less… exuberant than usual. His eyes have looked a little tired; his laughter has been a little strained. There’s tension in his neck and shoulders, and at times he’s seemed unfocused and inattentive. Yesterday, he even forgot his point halfway through delivering a lecture to Loud Girl about how it wasn’t nice to push people off roofs.

Glancing across at him, Robbie finds Sportacus staring distractedly off to the side, a slight frown on his lips, his eyebrows drawn together. Robbie turns his head to follow his line of sight, and sees that Sportacus is staring at… the hatch to his lair?

Robbie taps his chin. Why would Sportacus be thinking about his lair, when it’s such a lovely day? Sportacus is usually the first one to hustle him outside and into the daylight. Anyway, they’re out on a date; Sportacus should be paying attention to him.

He clears his throat, and Sportacus jumps slightly, before turning to look at him, blinking, a startled expression on his face.

“Oh – I – uh,” Sportacus says.

Robbie has never had a particularly high opinion of Sportacus’ eloquence, but this is bad, even for him.

He smiles, narrowing his eyes. “Looking at anything in particular?”

Sportacus looks like a butterfly about to be impaled on a pin. “What?”

Robbie, magnanimously, decides to let it go. As long as Sportacus’ attention is firmly focused on him again, he can overlook these little lapses.

Normally, this would be the point where he would say something devastatingly cutting, but he finds himself strangely at a loss. He blinks in consternation.

Is he getting… soft?

He scoffs. No! Surely not! He’s just lulling Sportasap into a false sense of security, so that… so that….

Now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t remember the last time he came up with a scheme to run Sportacus out of town, or to make him look even more foolish than usual in front of the kids. But that’s just because he’s been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike!

He smiles triumphantly. Right when Sportacus least expects it – bam! He’ll – he’ll –

“Dug any holes lately?”

There’s an edge of desperation to Sportacus’ tone, and it takes Robbie a moment to process the words. He frowns.

“You told me it was my civic duty to stop undermining Lazy Town’s vital infrastructures.”

Sportacus licks his lips. “I – well – yes, but –” He trails off. There’s a kind of muted panic in his eyes, and a faint tinge of pink to his cheeks. “Maybe a small hole would be okay. In a park. Not in the road. If you were careful to watch for the gas mains. And signed it appropriately.”

Robbie is baffled.

Does Sportacus want him to go around digging holes? Doesn’t he remember how terrible it was the last time they got stuck in a hole together?

“No, it’s okay,” he says, picking up his plate of cake. It has glacé cherries in it, which Robbie feels is a rather impressive concession. “I’m fine.”

If Robbie didn’t know better, he could swear Sportacus’ shoulders droop a little.

“Oh,” he says, subdued. “Okay, then. Just… making sure.”

Robbie shoves a piece of cake in his mouth, chewing mightily. What has gotten into Sportaflop lately? He’s been limper than the lettuce he’s always carting around – something that Robbie personally believes has to be against some kind of Geneva Convention – and doesn’t even seem that interested in doing totally unnecessary and highly hazardous backflips to get from A to B.

A cold hand suddenly squeezes at Robbie’s heart.

Is Sportacus… getting bored with him?

He looks down at himself – takes in his svelte figure and beautifully tailored garments; thinks of the excruciatingly handsome features he knows adorn his face. The brilliant mind he has ticking away inside his head.

Nah.

So it has to be something else.

But what?

Absently, he picks up a bottle of the stevia-sweetened soda he’s been drinking lately, twisting the cap off.

“Oh – darn –”

It must’ve gotten shaken up in the picnic basket – the second the lid comes off, a foaming white eruption spurts forth, spraying him in the face and gushing over his hand. He quickly brings the bottle to his mouth, catching as much of the foam as he can, licking up the side of the bottle.

“Sportacus, can you pass me a –”

Sportacus is but a mere rapidly-disappearing dot in the distance, not even bothering to flip his way to… wherever it is he’s going. Faintly, Robbie sees the airship’s ladder drop down, and Sportacus climbs it like a man on fire.

… Huh.

Robbie licks his hand absently.

Well, that was unexpected – but really, that’s what you get with sports elves. Always on the move.

“Whatever,” he says benignly to himself, taking a long swig of soda and gazing up at the clouds drifting across the clear blue sky.

VII.

Robbie looks himself up and down in the mirror, holding his planned outfit up in front of him.

Perfect.

Putting the shirt down carefully on his retractable ironing board/pipe organ, he lifts his leg, hopping a little to get his foot into the pants. Sportacus will be here soon to take him out for a meal, and Robbie doesn’t want him to show up before he looks anything less than dazzling.

Pants are on. Belt is buckled. Shoes are tied.

So far, so good.

Robbie lifts his scrupulously ironed shirt, slipping first one arm into a sleeve, and then the other. He’s only just started buttoning it up, however, when there comes a pounding knock on the hatch.

Damn. The accursed sports elf is early!

Robbie pauses, wondering if he shouldn’t just make Sportacus wait for him outside – but then again, Sportacus has been awfully twitchy lately, and has been developing a bad habit of making his excuses and fleeing for no good reason that Robbie can discern. It’s not as if anything has ever happened to cause this behaviour – he’d been merely eating a cream bun, for instance; or pumping up the tyres on Sportacus’ idiotic bicycle; or one time, he’d been innocently twirling the hose while watering those little brats’ vegetable garden. Each had led to the same end result: Sportacus excusing himself and rapidly disappearing into his skyblimp.

If Robbie’s self-esteem were less robust, he would be insulted.

As it is, he’s merely bemused.

As long as Sportacus keeps coming back – which he does, repeatedly and enthusiastically – then he can live with these little eccentricities.

With a fond sigh, Robbie begins making his way up the ladder. Excitement at seeing Sportacus lends his feet wings, and he makes his way up the tube in record time, popping the hatch.

Sportacus stands there, looking a little… dishevelled.

And kind of sweaty.

Robbie frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Sportacus seems to shake himself out of some kind of fugue. “Oh. No. I’m fine.” He coughs. “How are you?”

Robbie sighs, and considers some biting comment about schedules and sticking to them, but holds his tongue. Sportacus is here, and that’s all that matters.

“I’m fine, but you might have to give me a minute – I’m not dressed yet.” He shakes his head in warm exasperation. “I spent all day putting together my outfit.” Which Sportacus clearly hasn’t – does he even own any other clothes? Maybe Robbie will have to measure his inseam, make him something bespoke.

“Uh-huh.” Sportacus is staring at Robbie – or, to be more precise, at Robbie’s semi-clad chest. Intensely. It’s enough to start making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“Uh, hello?” Robbie snaps his fingers in front of Sportacus’ face. “I’m up here.”

Sportacus blinks, his attention jerking back to Robbie’s face, looking slightly dazed.

Robbie rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Sportacus, anyone would think you’re –”

Sportacus will never find out what anyone thinks he is, because at that second, he springs forwards and jams his tongue down Robbie’s throat.

Robbie’s so surprised that he almost loses his footing on the ladder; but Sportacus’s manly arms are holding him tight, and Robbie leans into the kiss for a moment, before realising that his painstakingly ironed clothes are getting all crumpled.

Robbie pulls back, and it’s an effort, but he manages to disentangle their tongues.

“Wait a minute, Sportacus – my outfit –”

“I can’t take it anymore!” Sportacus interrupts him, his eyes aflame, his strong fingers digging into Robbie’s arms. “Let’s do it!”

Robbie frowns. “But… we’ll lose our booking.”

“To hell with the booking!”

Robbie opens his mouth to gasp at the sound of Sportacus using such foul language, only to find the elf’s lips back on his own.

For a minute, he considers protesting; but then again, why in the name of God would he be protesting this?

He eases into the kiss on a sigh, and oh, he’s missed this – Sportaprim’s recent chaste kisses upon the back of his hand have been delightful, but really, nothing beats a good old-fashioned tongue-plundering.

He only gets to enjoy it for a minute, though, until Sportacus suddenly pulls back; before Robbie can gather his wits to question why, he finds himself shoved back into the chute, Sportacus’ heated stare the last thing he sees as he tumbles back into his lair.

He lands on the ground with a jarring thump, a moment before Sportacus leaps out of the tube. There’s enough time for a brief moment of déjà vu before Sportacus sweeps him up in his arms and hauls him over his shoulder, making a beeline for the bedroom.

“Maybe we should call and cancel the booking?” Robbie manages to get out.

Sportacus’ arm tightens around his thighs. “Are you a villain, or not?”

… Fair point, Robbie thinks.

VIII.

“Hahahaha!” Robbie cackles, as Sportacus struggles mightily against the sticky bonds of the giant spiderweb that he has managed to backflip his careless way into.

“Robbie, you fiend! You’ll never get away with this!” He twists this way and that, muscles straining, but it’s no use. He’s thoroughly stuck, just as Robbie had intended. And there’s no one else for miles around to come to his rescue.

Robbie grins wolfishly, stalking towards Sportacus, swaying his hips just enough to drag Sportacus’ gaze southwards. He reaches out with one long finger, tilting up Sportacus’ chin until they’re staring eye-to-eye.

“Say that again.”

Sportacus glares back defiantly, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the ragged panting coming from his lips. And also by the distinct bulge that’s made an appearance in his pants.

“Oh, the strong and silent type, eh? Well, I have ways of making you… scream.”

Sportacus gasps, his eyes going wide. He bites his lip.

Robbie just laughs in response, and takes a slow, deliberate bite of the cake that he’d brought along just for the occasion. Full-sugar, full-fat, no nutritional value – and Sportacus knows it.

After he’d awoken from the coma he’d fallen into following their marathon sex session, he’d felt more clear-headed than he had in weeks. All at once it’d come to him that there were holes that needed to be dug, traps that needed to be set, and superheroes that needed to be ensnared. How had he let himself go like this? He’d been sorely neglecting his duties.

What had he even been doing these past few weeks? All right, sure – he’d been having a wonderful time. But now that he was aware of it… hadn’t there been something a little… off?

The two of them had come to some sort of tacit agreement while they’d been slowly, painfully pulling their clothes back on. There were some formulas that just shouldn’t be messed with.

Back in the here and now, Robbie traces one feather-light finger up Sportastuck’s thigh. He yelps, his muscles quaking beneath Robbie’s touch.

“You villain!”

Robbie smirks triumphantly. Sportacus is in his clutches, and all’s right with the world.

Yes, he is a villain, and a damn good one at that.

... But that doesn’t mean he won’t keep their date on Sunday.