Work Text:
The late afternoon sun bakes the pavement of downtown LazyTown, casting long, honey-hued shadows across the town square. Stephanie is a blur of vibrant pink against the dusty brick of the dance studio exterior, her boombox thumping out the upbeat tempo of "Anything Can Happen." She is middle-of-the-choreography, her movements sharp and earnest as she coaches Sportacus through the transition. Sportacus, having arrived in this strange, colorful town exactly one week ago, tracks her with wide-eyed intensity. He wears a replacement crystal that hums with a faint, oily magic he hasn't quite identified yet—a "gift" from the lanky man currently watching them from the shade.
Robbie Rotten stands a few feet away, leaning against a lamp post with a calculated air of detachment. To Stephanie and Sportacus, he is simply the local curmudgeon who seems to loathe noise and effort. They have no idea that the purple vest he wears isn't just a fashion choice, but the uniform of the town’s most exacting dance instructor. Robbie is currently leading a double life; by night, he plots to drive the "sports elf" away to protect his hidden kin, but by day, he is the only person in North Dakota who can properly explain the difference between a glissade and a chasse.
It kills him to watch Stephanie’s unrefined technique, but for the sake of his secrets, he remains silent. Only Trixie, his star pupil who is currently "loitering" by the studio door to sneakily practice her extensions, knows the truth of his talent.
"Okay, and—big finish!" Stephanie chirps, her voice full of that relentless mid-2000s optimism.
She spins, a whirlwind of glitter and polyester, and leans back into a dramatic, sweeping dip. Sportacus reacts with elflike precision, his hands steady and firm as they support the small of her back. He holds her there for a beat, his smile bright and genuine, before he effortlessly guides her back to an upright position.
"Perfect!" she cries, already moving with the momentum of the song. "Now, Robbie! You’re standing right there—catch me on the left!"
Without waiting for a verbal confirmation, she pirouettes toward the taller man, tilting her weight into the air with total, terrifying confidence. Robbie is currently preoccupied with a mental calculation regarding the fae-infused boots he’d tricked Sportacus into wearing earlier that week. He isn't expecting a face full of pink bobbed hair.
"What? No, stay away—" he stammers, his long limbs tangling like a discarded marionette.
He reaches out a moment too late, his fingers catching only the air where Stephanie’s sleeve had been. She takes a comically slow-motion tumble, landing in a heap of colorful fabric on the sidewalk. The silence that follows is punctuated only by the tinny beat of the boombox. Instantly, the atmosphere shifts from rehearsal to rescue. Sportacus is a blur of blue spandex, dropping to one knee beside her, while Robbie scrambles forward with a panicked, high-pitched "Oof!" of his own. For a split second, the cynical mask slips, revealing the frantic concern of a teacher whose student just took a hard fall.
"You’re rushing the four-beat, you silly girl!" Robbie snaps, the critique slipping out before he can stop it. He catches himself, coughing into his hand. "I mean... ugh, you're making a racket. Look at the dust on your sweater." He brushes her shoulder with hands that are surprisingly steady and practiced.
The rehearsal continues, the music swelling as it enters the bridge. Stephanie, undeterred by the scuffed knee, bounces back with a laugh that rings through the North Dakota heat. "Let's try the lift! Sportacus, ready?"
She takes a running start, her sneakers squeaking against the concrete. She launches herself into the air, and Sportacus catches her mid-flight with a practiced ease that makes the feat look weightless. He spins her once, the blue of his suit clashing with the pink of her dress in a vibrant strobe of color. Robbie watches from the sidelines, his arms crossed over his chest. He glances over at Trixie, who is nodding along to the rhythm, and his lip curls. It is physically painful for him to watch them "wing it." His feet begin to twitch, the secret love for the choreography fighting against his need to remain the town's resident grouch.
As the refrain kicks back in—"Anything can happen!"—the energy in the square reaches a fever pitch. Stephanie is a dervish of joy, her movements infectious. Robbie, caught in the crossfire of the hero’s bewilderingly earnest gaze and the catchy hook of the song, finally snaps. If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it right. He begins to mimic Stephanie’s exuberant footwork, but with a technical precision that is jarringly professional. His long legs move with a fluid grace that Sportacus has never seen in a "lazy" human.
Then, fueled by a sudden, mischievous impulse to test the physical limits of this Number 10, Robbie doesn't just dance; he commits. Following Stephanie's lead with theatrical flair, Robbie takes a dramatic, soaring leap. He doesn't aim for the ground; he aims for the hero. Sportacus’s eyes go wide as several feet of lanky, elegantly airborne instructor come hurtling toward him. He doesn't flinch. He opens his arms, bracing his boots against the North Dakota dirt, and catches Robbie Rotten in a massive, staggering embrace just as the music hits its final, triumphant chord.