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The faint hum of the fluorescent string lights in his subterranean lair feels oppressive, amplifying the silence that has draped itself over LazyTown for the last seventy-two hours. Robbie Rotten is perched precariously on the edge of his hideous orange armchair, twisting the fringed tassels of a throw pillow. Three days after he shakily confesses his sexuality, worried about a breakup, the air is thick with the stagnant residue of his fear. Every time the periscope whirls slightly, he flinches, expecting a swift, definitive rejection—a note slipped under the front lip of his periscope tube, perhaps, or a formal, detached pronouncement from the mayor.
He replays the scene endlessly in his mind, the memory tasting like the weak lemon tea he had been drinking. “I don’t want to... I don’t need... I won’t ever be able to give you... that part,” he’d stammered, his hands slick against the rim of his striped cup. He watched the blue hero’s perfect face, waiting for the flicker of disgust or pity. Sportacus, the human embodiment of vim and vigor, deserved a partner who matched his limitless energy, not someone whose needs were, by design, less. Robbie’s asexuality felt like a withdrawal from the grand, passionate relationship he knew Sportacus expected, a fundamental difference he was certain would sever their already unlikely connection. The worry—the absolute certainty of the looming, final breakup—is a physical ache in his chest.
A soft thud from above startles him, followed by the distinctive scritch-scratch of a small, athletic boot landing lightly on the metallic roof of his lift. The lift whirs, and Sportacus descends, not in his usual rushing blur, but slowly, carrying a hefty, square board game box tucked under one arm and a massive, tartan-patterned fleece blanket under the other. He smells faintly of fresh cold air and peppermint.
“Robbie!” Sportacus’s smile is warm, but his tone is quiet, utterly without judgment or the forced cheer he usually employs. “I’m interrupting a quiet afternoon, I know, but I’m hoping you’ll allow it.”
He steps forward, deliberately gentle in his movements, and places the bulky game box and the blanket on the floor. Sportacus invites him to a night focused on cooperative board games or storytelling games with warm blankets and snacks. The game box is The Lord of the Rings: The Board Game, a heavy cooperative game where players work together to defeat the Dark Lord, Sauron. It is complicated, requires strategy, and demands shared focus. Next to it, he sets down a smaller box: Apples to Apples, a pure storytelling game of whimsical associations and shared laughter.
“The rule is,” Sportacus says, his blue eyes earnest, “we are a team. Always. We take turns reading the instructions, and we only lose if we lose together.” He gestures to the games. “No competition. Just building something. Or making stories, if that feels better. Something that keeps us close but doesn’t... doesn’t ask anything of you, Robbie, other than your cleverness.”
Robbie can only stare. The invitation isn't just acceptance; it's accommodation.
Sportacus carefully unfolds the blanket, a heavy, ridiculously cozy thing, and drapes it over the arm of the sofa, creating an inviting den. He then reveals the snacks: two enormous mugs of hot, steaming cocoa, heavily whipped with real cream and cinnamon for Robbie’s, and a giant bowl piled high with Cheez-Its and actual, homemade shortbread cookies.
“We start the first phase in the Shire,” Sportacus announces, dropping onto the rug with an appealing thump.
He leans back against the sofa cushions, inviting Robbie to join the ground-level tableau of domestic comfort. Robbie slides off the armchair and sits beside him, the warm air from the cocoa settling over them. The sheer, deliberate coziness of the setup—the low lighting, the heavy fleece, the specific, low-pressure activities—is overwhelming. They spend the next two hours poring over the enormous game board, their shoulders occasionally bumping under the cover of the blanket as they strategize the defeat of an Orc or the crossing of a river.
There's a moment, while Sportacus is moving a tiny Fellowship pawn across the Moria tile, that he pauses. He gently slides his hand to rest on Robbie’s forearm, a gesture of pure, quiet non-sexual affection. He doesn't look at Robbie, keeping his gaze fixed on the game board.
“You didn’t just tell me something, Robbie,” he whispers, his voice thick with sincerity. “You trusted me. That is the best part of our story, and I’m just grateful to be here for the next chapter.”
Robbie squeezes his arm in response, the tension of the last three days dissolving completely into the scent of cinnamon and the overwhelming, undeniable warmth of being loved, exactly as he is. They are safe here, working side-by-side, under a massive tartan blanket, fully accepted.