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Chapter Text

The children were late again.

The sun was still rising behind his back, crisp autumn air turning his breath visible, ghosting around his head. Íþróttaálfurinn sighed and stared hard into the middle distance as he reigned himself in, tempered the emotions roiling in his chest, focusing on jumping in place – first crouching down, his hands brushing the cold soil, before springing upwards, reaching for the sun. One hundred times. Every morning.

It was okay. It was going to be okay. The children would be here – up, and then down – like they always were. Exercises every morning before school. They were just late. Everything would go back to normal eventually.

Up, and down.

It had been about a week since he’d returned, and put an end to the chaos in town – about a week since he’d first laid his eyes on the whining, snivelling man who called himself Glanni Glæpur and about a week since Íþróttaálfurinn had discovered that for the first time in his life, he genuinely wanted to punch someone in the face. Although everything had been resolved, and things had been set right, the mayor reinstated and the kids back to a healthy lifestyle – the effects of Glanni’s meddling still lingered, like some kind of poisonous plant, the roots still left in the ground.

Up, and down – the heat of his muscles was comforting: the control of his body as he sprung from the ground and towards the blue sky felt better than grinding his teeth. Íþróttaálfurinn stopped, when he heard distant laughter, his shoulders relaxing, relief flooding his chest when the laughter turned into familiar voices. He stomped the ground, hopping up and down gently as he waited for them to round the corner.

The other children still gave strange, wary looks to Stingy, he reminded himself, going through his mental check-list. Stephanie and Trixie were friends now. It was good – it felt good, watching them walk hand in hand, their heads bent together conspiratorially, but Trixie had grown considerably more hostile against the others. It was worrying – and all Íþróttaálfurinn could do was make her run, make her run until she wasn’t angry anymore, and it wasn’t working. All he’d wanted was to make everyone in Lazytown healthy and happy, but humans were strange and complicated.

He should’ve been there.

All of the children had a new look somewhere in the corner of their eye – they laughed and smiled like they used to, but sometimes Íþróttaálfurinn could see it, when he wasn’t quite looking – something solemn and serious, something too mature, lingering, something no amount of exercise could fix. And he knew, he knew why – it’d been the first time someone adult, someone in charge, had broken their trust so thoroughly.

Suddenly Íþróttaálfurinn was angry again, frustration rising into his throat like bile – he lunged forward, his hands grabbing the cold ground as he flung himself off his feet, flipping in the air, but even that didn’t help, the back of his head burning, his blood humming in his ears, his lips curling as he snarled. His town. His responsibility. His children.

Up, his body moving through the air, his body bending, twisting – and down, feet landing heavy and sure.

It didn’t help a lot.

“Sportacus!”

Íþróttaálfurinn felt a real smile tug the corners of his lips, as he turned to greet the children, felt himself vibrate with useless energy that would still be there after the kids had gone to school.

“All right!” he barked, bouncing up and down, picking up excited Ziggy and tossing him in the air, catching him. “Let’s all get moving!”

It was going to be okay. One way or another.

*

Plans were the kind of thing that usually happened to other people.

Íþróttaálfurinn had never had much of a plan for anything – trying to work out his steps beforehand left his mind buzzing impatiently, left him craving to push on and to move and move and move. He could have simple goals, like health, or exercise, or vegetables, and he could throw himself fully into them – better and more dedicated than other people – but sometimes Íþróttaálfurinn just did things, and worked out the reasons and explanations afterwards. Most of the time, successfully.

Which was why he didn’t know why he was here, pacing like a caged tiger in front of the Lazytown police station, but he didn’t question it. His feet had simply led him here. He was fixing it.

He’d had a conversation with the mayor roughly half an hour ago: in which Íþróttaálfurinn had forced himself to smile until he was showing teeth and the mayor had repeated – over and over, in his slightly befuddled and kind manner (as if he’d taken Íþróttaálfurinn’s incredulousness for a lack of understanding) that Glanni Glæpur, while a wanted criminal elsewhere, had been convicted of crimes committed in Lazytown, so in Lazytown he would stay. For the time being.

“And anyway,” the mayor had said, smiling at Íþróttaálfurinn weakly, adjusting his bowtie. “Maybe we can make an honest man out of him yet, eh?”

Íþróttaálfurinn had thought of the children, then, and he couldn’t remember anymore what he’d said next, but he knew he should probably regret it.

He stopped, because he realized he was upside down and walking on his hands, and a crowd was gathering – flipped himself the right way up in a flurry of applause, which he didn’t even pause to acknowledge, and stalked inside the station.

Officer Obtuse looked up from his newspaper, startled. “Sportacus! What – is there a crime going on somewhere?”

“I think you should probably know more about that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, before he could help himself, and hurried on, rolling on the balls of his feet, running on the impatient, nervous energy that had brought him here. “Can I go and see the prisoner?”

Obtuse chuckled, shuffling around the impressive stacks of paper on his desk. “The prisoner, eh? Being real formal today, aren’t we –  well, technically he’s only available for me and the mayor, basically, but- “

“It’d only be for a moment.“

“I’d have to fill out the forms for a special permission- “

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, a little despairing, shifting from foot to foot, seconds ticking away in his head – and extended his magic just a tad, just a fraction, as he fixed his eyes on Obtuse and nudged him. It was barely anything, really, he told himself – just the barest glamour, worth marginally more than a winning smile.

“- but I don’t see why you can’t,” Obtuse continued, smoothly, raising his voice. “Hey, Glæpur! YOU’VE GOT A VISITOR!” He gestured at the door leading out of the office.

“Thank you, officer!” Íþróttaálfurinn barked, saluting him briefly – and if Obtuse didn’t see the sarcasm there, more the better – before he stalked through the negligently open door to the room with the prison cell.

The air turned from warm to positively chilly. It was a pathetic place of imprisonment, really – a holding cell, not a prison, badly ventilated and clammy – because Lazytown didn’t have any major criminals who’d need to be housed in it.

That is, until now.

The light was dim, but it didn’t bother his eyes, and he approached the cell, forcing his steps to be sedate, making out a figure on the bed – dark limbs, legs crossed delicately, and then, a pale, long face with dark eyes, eyes that suddenly turned to follow Íþróttaálfurinn’s movements. He stopped – not because he’d been spotted, but because he could feel the iron in the bars.

Íþróttaálfurinn cleared his throat, tried to work out the words, tried to give himself a chance to catch up.

“Glanni Glæpur?” he finally asked.

“What gave me away?” Glæpur drawled. His voice was deeper than Íþróttaálfurinn remembered, raspier. The man sat up slowly, leaning his back against the wall. “Was it that oaf shouting my name? There goes the air of mystery, I guess.”

He sniffed.

Íþróttaálfurinn felt the inside of his head go cold, but he spoke, slowly, carefully. “I’m- my name is-  Íþróttaálfurinn. The kids also call me Sportacus-“

He paused when Glæpur snorted disrespectfully, and took a deep breath, squeezing his hands into fists. He continued, evenly. “I’m the protector of this town, and its citizens. I make sure that they’re healthy, and happy, and active. You – Glanni Glæpur – nearly destroyed my work.”

Glæpur shifted and leaned forward, tilting his face like a bird, a strange, unpleasant gleam in his eyes.

“So?” he said.

“So?” Íþróttaálfurinn repeated incredulously, feeling his neck grow hot. “Is that all? You put children where you’re sitting right now. You locked them in your disgusting factory!”

“I sure did,” Glæpur said, looking like he was revelling in his own words. “Why are you giving me this recap? What do you want me to do, sportsman? I’m literally serving my punishment over here. Did you confuse this for a holiday resort?”

“I want you to apologize!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped. “I want you to apologize, to me, to the town, to the children – for what you did to us! And for once in your life, I want you to mean it, you pathetic waste of space.”

Glæpur stared at him – and then huffed out a rough laugh, slapping his knee.

“Golden,” he sneered. “Not you, just that pompous little speech. I don’t get a lot of entertainment around here – will you be doing one of your little dances next?”

“Apologize,” Íþróttaálfurinn repeated through his teeth. 

Glæpur leaned forward, his mouth curling unpleasantly.

“Dance,” he said.

There it was – the way Glæpur made him feel felt like throwing up, disgust and anger rising up his throat as that twisted little man sat in his cage, smug as he’d been before he’d been caught: because he’d never be the one dealing with nightmares or broken children or lonely empty yards, because all he’d cared about was filling his pockets – magic throbbed through Íþróttaálfurinn’s fingertips and flowed through his tongue, and he didn’t really regret this like he should’ve, like he had to, because it was only this once that he’d do it and it’d finally, finally fix everything-

“Apologize,” he said again, his voice echoing like distant thunder, flowing like silver and honey, the iron bars humming loudly in his ears, and he felt, truly, relieved.

Glæpur went still, staring at him.

“Apologize!” Íþróttaálfurinn snarled, power imbued in his words, reaching out – not to nudge, but to push.

Glæpur lifted his head, and then stood up like he was scenting blood.

-and it was different, it was wrong – Íþróttaálfurinn’s power thrummed and slipped past the other man like water gliding over a rock, and he didn’t know why.

“Are you,” Glæpur said, his pale face calculating, his grey eyes too clear, too perceptive. “Are you trying to do something to me?”

Íþróttaálfurinn jerked his head back, and slammed his mind shut – and without thinking turned, bolting out of the room.

Flinging himself through the open window, he could still hear Office Obtuse plaintively calling out confused apologies.

*

The moon was round and yellow, lighting Íþróttaálfurinn’s path better than the street lamps, as he swung himself onto the porch roof, and crawled towards the window, barely out of breath. He felt lightheaded, anger still bubbling somewhere in the back of his head.

His glamour hadn’t worked. It’d been – a disconcerting experience, enough, almost, to derail Íþróttaálfurinn from the fact that Glanni Glæpur was one of the most despicable people he’d ever met.

His glamour hadn’t worked.

He knew he shouldn’t be here, that it was already way past the usual bedtime – but he also knew that the person on the other side of the window would still be awake.

Íþróttaálfurinn reached out, and rapped his knuckles gently on the cold window.

It took a minute or so – a small nightlight was lit on the other side of the glass – and then the window was pulled open. Trixie squinted at Íþróttaálfurinn, shivering as the cold air hit her, her hair down, falling in unbrushed clumps on her shoulders.

“Sportacus?” she whispered, her eyes narrowed into slits. “What’re you doing here?”

“I know it’s late,” Íþróttaálfurinn said restlessly. “But could I talk to you for a moment?”

Trixie took a step back, rubbing her bare arms, hesitantly. Íþróttaálfurinn shifted and then sat on her windowsill, his shoulders hunched.

The floor of her room was barely visible for the mess – most of it looked like simple rubbish to Íþróttaálfurinn, with few, cheap toys here and there, stickers haphazardly glued on the walls and the door by someone who didn’t really know what to do with them – a pink teddy bear standing out where it sat on her bed next to her pillow.

Her sheets were surprisingly childish – multi-coloured ponies frolicking amongst rainbows.

“You know, someone might find this a bit creepy,” Trixie commented, her dark eyes shrewd for a moment as if she’d seen where Íþróttaálfurinn’s gaze had wandered.

“I’m not creepy, I’m Sportacus,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, flashing a small, weak smile. She returned it crooked, and Íþróttaálfurinn continued, hesitantly. “Would you – like to lead the group on exercises tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” Trixie said, rubbing her thin arms again. Her wide, expressive mouth twisted like she was thinking something unpleasant. “I don’t think I’m very good at it, actually. Is that why you came here? To ask me that?”

“Do you –“ Íþróttaálfurinn hesitated, his fingers gripping the windowsill. He felt like he could splinter the wood, if he just squeezed hard enough. “Do you still think about what happened with Glanni Glæpur?”

“Of course not,” Trixie said promptly. Íþróttaálfurinn looked at her, silently, and she made a face. “Not a lot. I mean – he was a big jerk, end of story. I guess I just think about –“ She hesitated. “I guess I just – think about how they all turned on me, just because he said so. It was so easy for them. It just – sometimes I think about it. ” She looked a bit defensive. “They put me in jail.”  

“They were manipulated, Trixie,” Íþróttaálfurinn said lowly, restlessly, and tried to smile, tried to be reassuring. “Believe me, people can be manipulated to do all kinds of things they don’t really believe in.”

Trixie gave him another one of her hard looks, and Íþróttaálfurinn’s smile faltered.

Then she sighed. “I guess so.”

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed – because he was no good at this, no good at telling a little girl something that’d make her feel better, no good at anything that didn’t involve running and jumping and shouting her unconditional praises. All he could do – all he could do, in fact, was-

“You should sleep,” he said abruptly. “It’s late. Tomorrow will be better, Trixie. It will be.”

And he reached out with his magic, very, very gently, and nudged.

It worked – well, it worked like magic should, like it should’ve worked, earlier. Trixie yawned, her eyelids looking heavier all of a sudden, her shoulders relaxing. “You’re right, Sporty. I’m gonna go to bed. If you tell anyone I have a teddy bear-“

“A million push-ups,” Íþróttaálfurinn said solemnly. “My arms will fall off.”

Trixie giggled softly, as she crawled under her sheets.

Íþróttaálfurinn backed away, closing the window carefully.

For a moment he stood still, despite every muscle in his body nearly vibrating with the need to jump, to run – and thought very hard of what he should do next.

In the end, he let his feet decide. He took off abruptly, back towards the police station.

*

The moon had followed him, blinking through the dim and unwashed window of Glæpur’s cell.

It occurred to Íþróttaálfurinn, standing there, watching the rise and fall of the other man’s chest on the other side of the bars, that he might have stop barging in on people when they were trying to sleep.

“Glanni Glæpur,” he said softly, and then, a little louder. “Wake up.”

Glæpur stirred, and opened his strange gleaming cat-eyes, lifting his head – and made a rather nasty face at Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Oh, it’s you again. What is this? Hazing? At least put a little shiv – I mean effort into it.”

He sounded rasping, his voice hoarse from sleep. Íþróttaálfurinn felt unrepentant.

“Come here,” he said, letting his power flow through his voice, getting as close to the bars as he dared.

Glæpur sat up, swinging his feet off the side of the bed, with a small click of the heels that Obtuse had apparently let him keep. Íþróttaálfurinn felt a little jolt of success, and focused.

“Come here,” he repeated, crooking his finger experimentally. He hadn’t put this much effort into a glamour in a long, long time – of course he used it sparingly, and only occasionally, but all the elves did. It was as much a part of him as everything else in his identity.

Glanni Glæpur stood up, his expression dreamy and thoughtful, his pale face illuminated by the soft light as he approached Íþróttaálfurinn. Of course, he looked less than ethereal – his face creased from sleep, his lips dry and chapped, his hair rumpled – but Íþróttaálfurinn had to admit there was something that worked for his advantage, something with the way his jaw was set, the particular curl of his lips, the way his hips swayed as he walked. Something feral, and cold, and tangible.

The other man stopped, and stood before him, both of them bathed in the weak moonlight as they stared at each other. Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath, and then licked his lips, opening his mouth.

“I want you to- “

Glæpur’s teeth flashed, abruptly, as leaned forward, his hand darting through the bars – and suddenly Íþróttaálfurinn’s head felt as lot lighter.

Glæpur danced back, clutching his cap.

“Gotcha!” Glæpur cackled. “Well, would you look at that – I knew there was something off about you! What pretty pointy little ears you have!”

“Give it back!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, less than eloquent, leaning in as if going to snatch his cap back. Glæpur took several steps back, dangling it tauntingly.

“A real life veritable elf visiting my miserly little prison,” Glæpur said, his voice like silk. “Tell me – were you trying some kind of a spell on me earlier? Were you trying to control me? Now that’s not very nice.”

“I was trying make you apologize,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, between his teeth. “That’s all – a little nudge towards decency, since you have trouble getting there yourself. Now give me back my hat.”

“I could,” Glæpur said agreeably. “But I think I’m going to hold onto it – it gets awfully cold here during the nights, you know.“ He stuck out his tongue, flicking the crystal attached to the cap playfully, eyes dancing.  “Maybe I can trade this in for a decent cashmere scarf.”

Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t answer, mostly because he was resisting the urge to fling himself at the bars, grab a hold of Glæpur and simply throttle him – instead, he took several steps back, stalking to the wall further away in quick, angry strides.

“Giving up so soon?” Glæpur taunted behind him. “Honestly, I’m very open to haggling, you know – how much does a village idiot make these days?”

Íþróttaálfurinn grabbed the keys hanging from the wall, and turned, walking back to the cell. Glæpur hesitated visibly when he saw them.

“You have two options,” Íþróttaálfurinn said lowly, the key rattling in the lock. He could barely keep the snarl out of his voice, the muscles in his jaw clenching unpleasantly. “Either you give me back my hat now, or I’m coming in there and getting it, Glæpur. You don’t want me to come in.”

“You don’t scare me,” Glæpur said. He took a step back from the door, and Íþróttaálfurinn was gratified to note he’d gone tense, no longer smiling – his eyes fixed on Íþróttaálfurinn intently. “Isn’t it against some kind of code to harm other people? What’re you going to do, backflip at me until I give in?”

Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t say anything – and the cell door opened with a click, groaning as he pushed it open and stepped inside. He fixed his eyes on Glæpur, placing the keys in his pocket.

“I’ll yell,” Glæpur said, tilting his chin up.

“I want my hat,” Íþróttaálfurinn said lowly. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he crossed the meagre cell floor – and Glæpur’s resolve crumbled before his eyes, just as he’d expected, the man’s expression turning from incredulous to worried, before he suddenly thrust the cap back at Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Here, take it, you brute!”

“That’s better,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, pulling his hat back over his ears. Glæpur was taller than he was – but the way the man hunched his shoulders, his back pressed against the bars, made Íþróttaálfurinn feel like he was towering over him, and if he was completely honest with himself, he liked the sensation. It was the first time he’d seen Glæpur do anything but sneer at him.

Glæpur, in his turn, squinted at Íþróttaálfurinn, and then said, rather reluctantly, almost petulantly. “I wasn’t going to keep it.”

“Well, you weren’t. Because I got it back. No hard feelings now, Glæpur.”

“Of course not.”

“You could even apologize,” Íþróttaálfurinn said pointedly. “I might forgive you.”

They paused, staring at each other in a sudden silent battle of wills, Glæpur’s expression completely unreadable as if he was mulling it over.  

“You know, you’re a lot bigger up close,” Glæpur said suddenly, conversationally, shifting – a sudden calculating edge in his eyes that made the hairs in the back of Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck stand up. “A lot bigger. No wonder those idiots out there – “

“Don’t call them- “

“The townfolk- “ Glæpur corrected himself smoothly. “No wonder they idolize you. At first I thought it was some kind of elf mind control, but- “

“I don’t do that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. Glæpur was acting friendly, but he still felt on edge, suddenly regretting this – standing in this cell in the middle of the night when he should’ve been sleeping. What had he been hoping to accomplish? “I wouldn’t. The only reason I tried it on you- “

“I can be stubborn, I admit it,” Glæpur  said, a new, smooth tone to his voice, placating and slippery – and he stepped closer, and Íþróttaálfurinn was suddenly strangely, uncomfortably aware of the heat his body, wrapped in that ridiculous catsuit, the way it broadcasted the exact, oddly hypnotic tilt of his hip.

“I can be obnoxious,” Glæpur said huskily. “I don’t trust new people easily. I like to push them around. But I can always appreciate- “ and he paused, Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes fixed on his lips, the way his tongue poked between his white teeth – “Strength.”

Íþróttaálfurinn opened his mouth – because he needed to say something, he needed to back away, forget this, but he couldn’t seem to move – and then Glæpur stepped into his personal space, his strange expressive mouth covering Íþróttaálfurinn’s, warm and eager, an arm curling around his waist.

Something raw and heated surged inside Íþróttaálfurinn, his brain grinding into a halt as Glæpur’s thin body swayed against his – he didn’t think as he grabbed a hold of his hips, spreading his fingers against them experimentally, kissing Glæpur back – backing him against the bars restlessly, all of his usual energy suddenly pinpointed with nearly maddening accuracy to wet heat of a mouth against his, Glæpur’s teeth bruising and hungry as they nipped his lips, and he shuddered -

- a jingle of keys shook him sharply out of his haze.

He pulled back, staring at Glæpur’s heavy-lidded face, both of them panting quietly, and then looked at the floor, where the keys, fished out of his pocket, laid scattered.

For a moment, Íþróttaálfurinn felt like he wasn’t breathing.

“Whoops?” Glæpur offered huskily, with a sheepish grin. “Butterfingers.”

Íþróttaálfurinn took a step back – his heart pounding in his ears, shock and disgust coiling in the pit of his stomach– and the next thing he knew, Glæpur lay sprawled on the ground, his mouth bleeding as he blinked up at Íþróttaálfurinn, wide-eyed.

He wanted to do more, to lunge and remember the sensation of his knuckles breaking against Glæpur’s stupid, deceitful face, a brand new sensation of bitter dark anger and disappointment roiling in his chest as he panted hard, ragged and loud: his magic hummed like an angry beehive.

By his feet, Glæpur winced, as if he could sense that, and raised his arms to protect himself.

Íþróttaálfurinn shook himself, a tremor running through his body, and turned, prowling out of the cell in long, frustrated strides.

*

“Yup,” Stephanie said, and Íþróttaálfurinn suddenly found his wrist grasped by two small hands. “That’s definitely blood on your knuckles. What have you been up to, Sportacus?”

Íþróttaálfurinn thought about the cold darkness of the cell and a voice panting against his mouth, and Glæpur’s wide, terrified eyes and felt a sudden, unwanted wave of guilt turn his stomach. He felt irritated. Glæpur was a nasty piece of work, the worst kind of a person – so what if Íþróttaálfurinn had socked him? Someone should’ve.

“I must’ve scraped myself on the ground,” he offered, using his free hand to energetically turn the shovel in the frozen dirt. He didn’t try to pull his hand free – even though it made him feel like a caged, collared animal, restlessness rousing in his chest – because Stephanie didn’t actually touch people often. She made him want to be gentle.

Stephanie didn’t seem to be inclined to let go either, her fingers curling around Íþróttaálfurinn’s wrist as if holding him in place, both of them unnaturally still. She was wearing a clearly home-knit red sweater over her dress, and her gaze wandered, lips moving as if she was thinking something, and Íþróttaálfurinn waited, feeling only slightly pained, for her to finish whatever thought floated in her head.

 “Everyone’s playing together again,” Stephanie commented abruptly. She was watching the other children, who’d abandoned gardening in favour of – Íþróttaálfurinn squinted – wrapping Ziggy up with the garden hose whilst singing some kind of a song. He reminded himself to rescue the boy once the others got bored.

“True friends will never fight for long,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, his mouth curling – he was quoting something he could barely remember, but it seemed appropriate, it seemed right. It seemed like the kind of thing he should say. Stephanie, however, gave him a side-eye that Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t quite understand.

“What is it?” he asked, nudging her gently. He used his muddy hand to rub his face, grinning a little. “Is there something on my cheek?”

Stephanie let out a laugh, her warm hands squeezing his wrist. “Come on – honestly, do you – I mean, do you have friends?” She hurried to add. “Friends your age, I mean. Adult friends.”

“I do,” Íþróttaálfurinn said automatically, taken aback. “Of course I do! The mayor, Miss Busybody – ah, officer Obtuse –“

“Right,” Stephanie said, and her mouth was still grinning, but her sweet, blue eyes looked thoughtful, her brows furrowing.

“And others,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, feeling a tiny bit defensive at Stephanie apparently thinking he was some kind of a town loner. “Just not in Lazytown.”

“Well, that’s good,” Stephanie said solemnly. “I just thought –“ she paused. “I’ve never had a friend like Trixie. I think everyone should have a really good friend, like Trixie.”

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed, feeling – strangely taken aback, warm despite the chill in the air.

“And I don’t want anyone fighting each other anymore,” Stephanie said, her gaze wandering back over to the kids, Trixie currently hopping up and down in an effort to get laughing Pixel into a headlock. Stingy was attempting to grab her legs to give her a boost. “I’m so sick of everyone being mean to each other for no reason.”

“Right,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, the laughter and the shrieks echoing in the courtyard, distant in his ears. “You’re absolutely right, Stephanie.”

She gave him a smile, and finally let go of his wrist, the warmth of her fingers still lingering. “You’ve got half a worm in your hair, Sportacus!”

She laughed and turned to run towards the other kids as Íþróttaálfurinn recoiled violently.

*

“I’m sorry I punched you.”

Glæpur was startled out of what Íþróttaálfurinn assumed was an examination of his fingernails – judging from his horrified expression, he wasn’t happy – and the man turned to blink at Íþróttaálfurinn owlishly. His lower lip had a bit of crusted blood on it, from where it was split – it’d been a few days, so the bruising was starting to fade, but it still made Íþróttaálfurinn squirm, and shift from foot to foot restlessly.

“Oh, that,” Glæpur said blankly, and then, dismissively, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t worry about it. I had it coming.” He paused. “And I can always sue.”

“You just said you had it coming,” Íþróttaálfurinn pointed out, a little irritated.

“Hearsay! Not admissible!” Glæpur said, pointing at Íþróttaálfurinn gleefully. “Don’t test me, Ibuprofen, do you know how many times I’ve been prosecuted? Sometimes with me acting as my own lawyer?”

“Do I – what did you just call me?”

“Your name,” Glæpur said innocently. He was eyeing Íþróttaálfurinn as if observing something amusing, and it made Íþróttaálfurinn strangely uncomfortable.

“Íþróttaálfurinn,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, enunciating slowly. “My name is Íþróttaálfurinn.”

“Ibu-profen.”

“Íþ- “ Íþróttaálfurinn stopped, scowling, turning away restlessly, pacing back a couple of steps. Glæpur sat in his cage, watching him with the most obnoxious grin on his stupid face.

He didn’t want to lose his temper again, no matter how much he itched for a fight. He searched for something to say – anything, to change the subject. For a moment he considered pointing out how easily he’d been able to apologize to Glæpur  and perhaps the other man should consider trying out those words in a roughly similar order: but he thought that might lead them back to the same old path.

He eyed Glæpur a bit more closely.

“You look awful,” he blurted out, before realizing it wasn’t maybe the peace offering he’d hoped it to be.

Glæpur eyes widened comically, before he scowled. “Well excuse me- “

“You look thinner,” Íþróttaálfurinn said hastily. “Same otherwise! Not – not bad.”

“It’s the prison diet, thank you very much,” Glæpur drawled, reluctantly mollified. “Well, partly the prison diet. Partly genetic, and completely unattainable.” He paused. “You know, some people say I’ve got a model’s body.”

Íþróttaálfurinn realized, after a second, that Glæpur was trying to strike a pose.

He was a little startled at the small huff of laughter that escaped his lips.

Glæpur squinted at him suspiciously. “Are you laughing at me?”

Íþróttaálfurinn opened his mouth, to ask where Glæpur was keeping the body – and he looked at the other man, sitting in his dinky little cell, hunched over with a sullen, wary expression. His mouth looked awful. The bruises and the cut, still an angry shade of red, had to hurt every time he spoke, not to even mention when he smiled – and yet, so far, Glæpur had been smirking away as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Íþróttaálfurinn reconsidered.

“I just thought the same thing earlier, that’s all,” he said carefully. Glæpur blinked, surprised.

“Really?”

“Actually,” Íþróttaálfurinn hastened to say, clearing his throat, shifting from foot to foot, restlessly. “There was something I was wondering if I could ask you – that is, why my glamour- the, the elf magic I was using- it didn’t work on you. Do you know why?”

“Well,” Glæpur said, after a pause, leaning back, speaking slowly. “I could tell you – but the answer is going to cost you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn breathed in sharply through his teeth. Of course. “How much?”

“Really?” Glæpur barked out a laugh. “Well – I need to think about it. How about I come up with something, and tell you the next time you come over? Think you can keep your exercise pants on until then?”

“Fine,” Íþróttaálfurinn said irritably. “I can.” Suddenly he realized what this meant – that Glæpur had essentially, unwittingly, invited Íþróttaálfurinn to come see him again. He wondered if the other man would notice.

He wondered, looking around in the pathetic holding cell, how much actual, daily human interaction Glæpur actually got.

The words came out of his mouth, before he could think about them. “I could talk to the mayor, you know.”

Glæpur paused, for a heartbeat, his lashes lowering.  

“Can you now,” he said. “Good for you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath, pushing on stubbornly, now that he’d gotten himself this far. “Look – I could talk to the mayor. He listens to me. I think, if you issued some kind of a public apology to the town, maybe did some kind community service – he could probably reduce your sentence considerably. You might be out a lot quicker that way.” He paused, adding dryly. “He’s actually a very reasonable man, you know – not the type to hold grudges, despite the fact that you literally drove him out of town.”

Glæpur wasn’t looking at him – his eyes fixed somewhere around Íþróttaálfurinn’s left ear, his expression completely inscrutable. At some point, his smile seemed to have faded away, leaving him distant and haughty. “Thanks,” he said eventually. “I’ll pass.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stared at Glæpur incredulously. Irritation flared in his chest, his fingers curling into fists. He felt like pulling hair. Preferably Glæpur’s.

“Why not?” he snapped. “What’s wrong with it? What, it’s not glamorous enough for you to make amends? You’d rather sit here, in your little- ”

“I won’t grovel!” Glæpur hissed abruptly. Íþróttaálfurinn reared back sharply.

“Grovel-“

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Glæpur demanded, baring his teeth. “You, you think I’m going to let myself be paraded in front of your little converts, snivelling and scraping at the ground? That poor Glanni Glæpur, finally seeing the light thanks to you, Sportaflop fixing everything like the mighty big hero he is, you’re really-“

Íþróttaálfurinn surged forward uselessly, resisting the urge to bang his head on the bars. “That’s funny – I thought groveling come easy for you,” he snarled, “considering how quickly you seem to roll over to show your belly at the first sign of trouble, you miserable cowardly little-“

“That’s different!” Glæpur yelled, his voice rising in pitch uncomfortably. He jumped up to his feet, approaching the bars. “That’s necessary!”

“How?!” Íþróttaálfurinn yelled back, baring his teeth. “Please, tell me! How is it necessary for you to not even make an effort, for you to rot in here-“

“That’s-“

“Tell me, Glæpur!”

“Because I don’t like getting hurt!”

Íþróttaálfurinn stopped. Both of them panted hard in the silence that followed, as he stared at Glæpur – who had angry red blotches on his face, who was standing there, meeting his gaze stubbornly, his thin body nearly trembling with anger.

Finally, Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath, and spoke, lowly. “Okay,” he said evenly. “No groveling.”

“No deal with the mayor,” Glæpur said hoarsely, colourlessly. “I can sit through my time on my own.”

And he turned, walking back to his cot.

Íþróttaálfurinn stared at his sharp, hunched form for several minutes, curling and uncurling his fingers. He felt electrified, unpleasantly charged, frustration bubbling uselessly in his chest. Glæpur sat in dour silence, didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t even acknowledge him, and Íþróttaálfurinn hadn’t meant to get so angry, he didn’t even know why it mattered so much – it certainly hadn’t, before.

He thought about the way Glæpur’s eyes had widened in alarm when Íþróttaálfurinn had stepped into his cell, and approached him. He thought about how good it’d felt, to have him shrinking away. It’d been okay then. Glæpur had been nothing but scum.

Right?

Chapter Text

Íþróttaálfurinn woke up to a dark sky stretching wide and endless above him: and for a moment, as he stared up, his dreams still lingering, he thought he might just sink into it.

Then something wet and cold fell into his eye, and he was forced to blink, slowly coming to realize his surroundings.  

He was covered in a fine layer of snow, flakes floating down all around him in hushed silence. He sat up slowly, flexing his fingers and toes to warm them up: he’d landed the basket last night on the town square to sleep in, as he always did, but it seemed he’d failed to sniff out the change in weather before he’d fallen into restless slumber.

With a sudden deep breath, he flung himself onto the edge of the basket, grabbing it tightly as he swung his legs into the air, balancing on his hands for a moment before he somersaulted onto the cobblestones, and began his usual morning workout routine. Push-ups, sit-ups, crouches, lunges – Íþróttaálfurinn counted in his head methodically, as his body warmed up and woke up, his breath foggy in the cold air, his head blissfully clear.

He could see, in the houses surrounding him, signs of people waking up – dark windows suddenly bathed in warm golden light, sleepy figures shuffling about. A mailman rode past him on a wobbling bicycle, and Íþróttaálfurinn raised his hand in a greeting. The gently falling snow turned the air crisp and clean, and he felt – calmer, somehow, better. Everything felt like it was getting back to normal. As it should’ve been.

“Sportacus?”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned, but didn’t stop his workout – Stephanie bopping into his vision, standing there in her sweater and her aggressively pink slippers, her footsteps still visible where she’d ran out of the house. She was holding a thermos.

“Good morning, Stephanie!” Íþróttaálfurinn greeted, planting his hand onto the snow and flipping himself onto his feet. “You should probably dress up a little warmer when you go to school.”

“You should probably stop sleeping in the basket,” Stephanie answered matter-of-factly, snow gathering gently on her pink head. “You’ll catch a cold that way, you know. Mom said.”

“Ah, it snuck up on me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, bouncing from feet to feet, grinning helplessly at her – he shook his head, like a dog drying up, and she giggled. “Anyway, maybe I’ll just install a tarp or something. That might work.”

“Sportacus!” Stephanie exclaimed, as if scandalized. “You have a house, remember?”

Íþróttaálfurinn did remember.

It was a bit of an inside joke in the town at this point – when Íþróttaálfurinn had first arrived to Lazytown, mayor Meanswell had, in a well-meaning effort to award his efforts and to subtly suggest that he make his visit permanent, gifted Íþróttaálfurinn a whole house at the edge of the city. It was conveniently located in the direction of Mayhemtown to make it easier for him to move between the two districts.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, Íþróttaálfurinn much preferred to sleep in his basket whenever he could.

The townsfolk had, at first, donated furniture to the empty house out of gratitude and goodwill, but when it’d become apparent that Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t intending to spend much time in the house, they’d… continued. As it had turned out, an empty house had been just the perfect place to get rid of the things you no longer wanted in your own home, and, as the town people often pointed out, trying not to smirk – it all went for the local hero.

Last time Íþróttaálfurinn had visited the house, he’d been the unwitting owner of four dining room tables, a bathroom full of plastic garden flamingos, three broken fridges, and a whole heart-shaped bed sitting in the attic, accompanied with a matching canopy.

He didn’t visit the house often.

“I think it might be a bit too far away to be useful,” he said carefully.

“It’s in town,” Stephanie folded her arms, her chin set stubbornly. “It’s a real house, with heating and everything. And you could still get around where you’re needed – aren’t you always saying there’s a way?”

“I do say that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said helplessly. “But-“

Stephanie’s eyes widened innocently as she gazed up at Íþróttaálfurinn. “Is it healthy to sleep outside in the middle of winter?”

“No!” Íþróttaálfurinn said hastily, holding up his hands. “I give in – no more, please. I’ll stay in the house. Have mercy, Miss Meanswell.” He laughed. “You should become a lawyer.”

“Maybe,” Stephanie said primly, eyeing Íþróttaálfurinn from head to toe, thoughtfully. “If my other options don’t work out. Oh, this is for you-“ she held out the thermos. “It’s vegetable soup. I made it with my mom last night.”

“Thank you,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, feeling warm and grateful, his muscles still singing after the exercise, his body vibrating at the early hour of the day. He held the warm thermos against his chest, his gaze caught by a sign, sticking out of a dumpster on an alley – a rich purple letter R, with a small crown above it.

It’d been a few days now, since he’d last seen Glæpur – almost a week. He’d thought it was better to put a little distance between himself and the other man. It’d helped, at least a little – Íþróttaálfurinn felt marginally calmer now.

He wondered, suddenly, whether Glæpur knew it was snowing.

*

The police station was warm, almost uncomfortably so, even this early on in the morning: Obtuse sat in his usual spot behind the stacks of paper he’d probably never sort out, sipping from a cup.

“Good morning, Sportacus!” he greeted enthusiastically. Íþróttaálfurinn flexed, gliding over to the desk in a somersault, the thermos securely tucked in his belt.

“May I go see the prisoner today?” he asked politely, straightening. Obtuse took a sip from his cup, making an impatient sound, gesturing as if he was swatting a fly.

“Yes, go, by all means! Although he’s so grouchy I can’t imagine how it’s any fun for you- some kind of hero business then, is it?”

“In a way,” Íþróttaálfurinn said absently, taking out the thermos, flipping and catching it thoughtfully as he made his way to the other room. The door was closed this time, but unsurprisingly unlocked, as he found when he pushed it open.

The cold air hit him as soon as he stepped in – the difference between Obtuse’s office and the cell was tangible, enormous. Íþróttaálfurinn was a little alarmed to notice the faint layer of white frost on the stone floor.

“Glæpur?” he called out carefully, walking in.

“Close the door!” Obtuse called – but Íþróttaálfurinn ignored him, walking towards the bars, his attention attracted by muffled but unpleasant coughing.

Glæpur was in an almost the exact position he’d left him, although Íþróttaálfurinn knew that logically, he must’ve moved around – he was lying on his side, back turned towards the bars, curled in on himself as if trying to preserve heat, which was more than understandable – and he was coughing, his shoulders shaking lightly.

“It’s freezing in here,” Íþróttaálfurinn said incredulously. “Are you – are you okay? Glæpur?”

The other man stirred, and then spoke – his voice rasping, irritated. “I’m great. Look at me go.” 

“You don’t sound great,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, getting closer to the bars, tampering down his annoyance. “Can you – turn around so I can see you?”

Glæpur sounded as if he was about to say something – and started coughing again, and then shifted and sat up, turning, his movements sluggish as if he was moving through tar – and Íþróttaálfurinn could see, even in the awful lighting, the sheen of cold sweat on his brow, the ugly pallor of his skin.

“You look sick,” he said restlessly.

“I look amazing,” Glæpur snarled peevishly – and now Íþróttaálfurinn could hear the faint slur in his voice. “What’s it to you, huh? Just leave me alone, Ibuprofen.”

Íþróttaálfurinn looked around, frowning – and then made an impromptu decision, grabbing the keys from the wall and walking over to the door of the cell, starting to unlock it.

“What- “ Glæpur’s tone changed, became worried, even though he couldn’t seem to be able to stop coughing. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m coming in to check on you,” Íþróttaálfurinn said distractedly, flinging the door open.

Glæpur was halfway up on his feet by the time he got to him, and Íþróttaálfurinn reached out, pushing him firmly back onto the cot. Glæpur went down with sluggish protests, and Íþróttaálfurinn was a little alarmed by the heat radiating from the other man. He felt his forehead – Glæpur was practically burning up. He resisted the urge to draw his hand back. 

“Officer Obtuse!” he called out tentatively.

“Don’t get that moron in here,” Glæpur mumbled dazedly. “I can’t stand him right now, I’ve got a splitting headache and no heavy blunt objects- “

“You have a fever,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, and crouched down. He hadn’t been this close to the other man since – since they’d kissed, and Glæpur was drooping, wilting like a dying flower, completely sapped out of his usual predatory air, his face slack and exhausted and much too pale. Íþróttaálfurinn reached out, gingerly, pressing his cool fingers against the heated skin of Glæpur’s neck, feeling just under his jaw, and Glæpur sighed out softly, leaning into the touch as if all the fight had suddenly been taken out of him. It was disconcerting.

He could die in here, some treacherous part of Íþróttaálfurinn thought suddenly, and he was surprised at the cold dread suddenly twisting in his chest. He was emphatically not panicking.  

 “Officer!” he called out loudly. Glæpur winced, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

“Just go away,” the other man mumbled, sullenly. “Beep beep. That’s you. That’s your stupid crystal on your stupid hat. Someone’s in trouble.“

Íþróttaálfurinn leaned back, trying to think of a sensible plan of action. After about twenty seconds, he came to the conclusion that he didn’t have one.

Instead, he grabbed Glæpur’s arm, hauling it around his shoulders.

“Up,” he said tightly. “We’re going. Right now.”

The other man stood up easily enough, although his legs seemed dangerously weak, opening his eyes and blinking at Íþróttaálfurinn unreadably. Íþróttaálfurinn, in turn, wrapped his arm around the slim waist, and turned, containing his need to burst into movement in favour of walking Glæpur out of the cell slowly.

“Oh no,” Obtuse said, circling around behind his desk, gesturing sharply. “No prisoners out of the- what’re you doing, Sportacus?”

“He’s sick!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped. “He’s not going to get any better in that icebox!”

Obtuse drew himself to his full, less than intimidating height, clearing his throat. “If he has a complaint, I’d be happy to fill out the form B20-8 for him, to be reviewed in no less than three working days- “

Glæpur sighed suddenly – and for a moment Íþróttaálfurinn thought he was going to say something insulting, before he sagged heavily against Íþróttaálfurinn. He took a few steadying steps, trying desperately not to let the other man drop on the floor, glancing at Obtuse urgently.

“Help me!”

To his credit, Obtuse rushed forward – and with his assistance, Íþróttaálfurinn managed to haul the other man off his feet and into his arms, taking a moment to shuffle him into a position where he wouldn’t be jostled, while Glæpur groaned, still clearly out of it. The other man’s head dropped against his arm, his dry lips parted as he wheezed painfully.

“I’m taking him,” Íþróttaálfurinn said grimly, his mind suddenly fully made up.

“Well, I don’t think so- “ Obtuse started, his face scrunched up in a self-important manner.

“I’m taking him,” Íþróttaálfurinn repeated in a different voice, the lights flickering – and he took a deep breath, drawing back his magic desperately. Obtuse stood, ramrod straight, his mouth left hanging open, staring at Íþróttaálfurinn dreamily.

“Sit down,” Íþróttaálfurinn said softly. “Drink your tea. Everything is okay.”

“Of course it is,” Obtuse mumbled – turning, like a sleepwalker, going to back to his chair. “You’re taking him.”

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed, standing there for a moment, Glæpur overheated and limp in his arms, feeling guilty – and then he glanced down at the other man, at the almost healed cut on his lower lip, and squared his shoulders, turning and stalking out towards his balloon, before the rest of the town would be fully awake and about.

*

The house was mustard-coloured.

Íþróttaálfurinn had forgotten this – he could barely remember the last time he visited. The door was unlocked, of course, and he let himself in, hauling Glæpur, who was on his own two feet again, inside.

The place looked like it had been attacked by multiple strong-willed interior designers. Íþróttaálfurinn had three different hat stands, sitting by the door in an accusing clump.

He exhaled, trying not to breathe in the dusty air, and led Glæpur on. The other man was curiously silent, curled in on himself, his arm grasped against his side – Íþróttaálfurinn wondered whether he was in some kind of pain.

“Oh – there’s a fireplace,” he said after a moment, his voice echoing uncomfortably loudly in his own ears. “I might light a fire and find you a bed – I’m going to go ahead and assume there’s plenty to pick from- “

Taking a step forward, he positioned Glæpur against the doorframe, walking into the sitting room to see whether there were any firewood about, or even particularly ugly chairs.

“Idiot,” Glæpur mumbled behind his back.

Something heavy abruptly collided with the back of his head: pain exploded behind his eyes, if only briefly, as his knees hit the floor.

Everything went dark.

*

Numbness.

He woke up to a feeling of numbness – not in his body, exactly, but in the complete dullness of his senses – Íþróttaálfurinn felt as if he’d been wrapped up in cotton and dropped down to the bottom of a well.

Slowly, he became aware of the floor under his back, his arms over his head – and there, on his wrists, the sensation radiated down, not pain exactly, just – a lack of sensations washing over him, colours turning flat, sounds growing distant. He tilted his head up and squinted, his vision slowly getting sharper. He recognized Officer Obtuse’s handcuffs immediately. Glæpur must’ve stolen them – when Íþróttaálfurinn had been taking him away.

They were made of iron.

“You’re awake.”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned his head sharply, lifting to peer at the direction of the voice. Glanni Glæpur sat on a heavy, wooden coffee table, a few feet away, watching him unreadably, legs spread decadently – he still looked unnaturally pale, even for him, sweat gathering on his upper lip like he was struggling, a strange gleam in his eyes.

“Oh,” Glæpur cooed softly.  “Poor little guy. Did you get a bump on your head?”  

“What is this?” Íþróttaálfurinn said hoarsely. “I was trying to help you, Glæpur. Is this what I get for showing sympathy now?”

“Shut up!” Glæpur snarled abruptly, his whole demeanour changing, standing up on wobbly legs, hovering above Íþróttaálfurinn – and he stopped, breathing hard, his lips curling to show his teeth.

“I know what you were doing,” he continued silkily, his eyes harsh and cold and wild. “I know – you were going to take me out – while I’m weak – do a little clean-up, right, that’s why you magicked the policeman, I saw you- “

“What?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked incredulously. “Are you delusional? I took you here because you were getting sick in that place.“

“Shut up!” Glæpur shouted – the tip of his shoe slamming against Íþróttaálfurinn’s ribs, and he swayed violently, panting, as he started to cough again. Íþróttaálfurinn realized, with a jolt, that the other man’s eyes were glazed over, that calling him delusional might not have been as far off as he’d thought. He shifted, squirming on the floor, wincing when his wrists brushed against the cold metal.

“You need help, Glæpur,” he said, softer now, more urgently. “Look – you’re not well. Let me go and I’ll help you get better, I promise – I won’t hurt you- “ he paused, swallowing, “I won’t hurt you again. No more hurt coming your way. How’s that?”

“You just don’t know when to shut up,” Glæpur mumbled – and suddenly slid on top of Íþróttaálfurinn, straddling him easily, weighing less than expected. “And stop calling me Glæpur.”

“You need a doctor, you little imbecile!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, losing his patience with the surge of panic rising in his chest. His cap was snatched off his head, abruptly, and crammed into his mouth.

Glæpur leaned over him, staring at Íþróttaálfurinn as if he couldn’t quite see him, as if he was looking through him, panting with the effort as he swayed above him: like a wild animal, his nails scratching against the soft leather armour, his eyes impossibly bright and wide, and this close Íþróttaálfurinn could smell the sharp, sweet fever scent, could feel the heat of Glæpur’s body pressing down against his hips.

“You’re a bully, Íþróttaálfurinn,” Glæpur whispered, his breath rattling in his chest as he inhaled, staring down at Íþróttaálfurinn – the syllables of his name clicking into place with mocking accuracy. “No – don’t try to deny it. You’ve got power over other people, and that’s what power – that’s what power is for.” He stopped, staring at Íþróttaálfurinn, his lips moving, before he spoke again. “I’ve been a bully,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve dealt with them too – many, many times. Would you like to know what I did to the people who bullied me? Hm? Do you want to know?”

He reached out – his overheated, thin fingers caressing Íþróttaálfurinn’s face, gentle and shaking.  

He felt himself going still, staring at the other man – for a moment, he didn’t even breathe, he couldn’t.

Glæpur’s face contorted abruptly, as if he was going to snarl, his eyes wild – and he descended into hacking coughs, bowing his head towards Íþróttaálfurinn’s chest, his whole body shaking, nearly bent in half. He coughed for a long while, wheezing as if had trouble breathing, and Íþróttaálfurinn winced, closing his eyes.

He made a muffled sound, trying to spit out the cap, and Glæpur lifted his head again, breathing in shaky and painful – the most bemused, miserable expression on his face, like he couldn’t quite understand his current predicament.

“Why can’t I- “ he started, bowing his head and grimacing, before he tried again.

“Why did you keep coming back?” he said hoarsely.

Íþróttaálfurinn tensed – he felt as if he’d been caught on a lie.

“Why visit me? Why? Why are you like that? Why would you try to- “ Glæpur stopped, coughing for a while.

His eyes were the flat grey colour of the moon, staring down at Íþróttaálfurinn as if he was somewhere far away.

He continued, plaintively, his voice no more than a whisper.

“I don’t understand you," he said, and then: "Why would you do anything for someone like me?”

Íþróttaálfurinn stared back up at him in silence. Even without the gag, he wouldn’t have had any answers.

His chest ached, for reasons he couldn’t at this moment inspect closer.

Glæpur stared at him for a moment longer, before he climbed back onto his feet, slowly.

“Sorry for the trouble,” he drawled, or tried to – it came out more as a hoarse, thick slur. “You understand, right? Glanni Glæpur won’t stay – imprisoned for long. Glanni Glæpur – survives.” He paused, and then added, a little more hesitantly. “Goodbye.”

Something strange made Íþróttaálfurinn struggle, made him bite around his cap as he turned his head and gagged it out furiously, as the click of Glæpur’s heels grew distant, and he heard the door open. He jerked his arms sharply, iron cuffs be damned, and found that whatever they’d been attached to scraped across the floor easily. He turned to peer at his wrists.

Glæpur had handcuffed him into the legs of a dining room chair.

Íþróttaálfurinn let out a frustrated groan, and twisted, rolling onto his back and shoving the chair sharply on its side, slipping his handcuffed hands free, before flipping onto his feet.

Stephanie’s thermos laid on the floor, dented – probably from the impact it’d made with his head. Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t have any time to think about that now – he rushed outside, where the snow was still falling heavily.

“Glæpur!” Íþróttaálfurinn shouted, and then paused, taking a deep breath. “Glanni!”

There was something sprawled on the snow further away, not far from his balloon, looking like a discarded black garbage bag.

Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t curse very often, and never in front of the children – right now he felt like uttering every single bad word he knew.

“I should just leave you out here,” he muttered, stomping through the snow, his heart beating in his chest as he got to Glanni, bowing down to gather him up, clumsily due to the handcuffs. “You utter lunatic.”

With a grunt of effort, Íþróttaálfurinn turned, hauling the other man back inside: the softly floating snow soon covering the strange tracks on the ground.

*

“Congratulations!” the doctor said, removing her stethoscope. “It’s pneumonia.”

Íþróttaálfurinn had a feeling she wasn’t taking the state of affairs quite as seriously as a medical professional should.

Then again, he supposed she might still be irritated at being dragged through freezing weather in a hot air balloon all the way from Mayhemtown. For all its vices, Lazytown rarely required the expertise of doctors, while Mayhemtown’s citizens seemed strangely prone to minor and major injuries, making it the place to go for medical emergencies.

“And?” he asked, a little restlessly. The handcuffs clinked softly as he shifted, trying not to draw attention to them.

“And he’s going to need bed rest,” she turned to Glanni. The other man was awake – there was a thermometer stuck in his mouth. He was avoiding looking at Íþróttaálfurinn, but Íþróttaálfurinn was avoiding looking at him, so it worked out nicely.

“He’s making some great effort towards malnutrition too,” she added. “Not something I see often in Lazytown. Make sure he eats properly.”

“Does he need to go to the hospital?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, ignoring the face Glanni was making. He felt a bit useless hovering by the bedside, trying not to bump into the doctor in the small space. The bedroom was so full of furniture they could barely move about, a narrow path made around the bed.

She reached out, removing the thermometer from Glanni’s mouth, eyeing him shrewdly. “Can you tell me the name of the gentleman breathing down my neck, please?” she asked.

Glanni flicked his listless eyes at Íþróttaálfurinn for a moment, before he opened his mouth, his voice hoarse. “Ibuprofen.”

“Ah- “

“It’s a nickname,” Íþróttaálfurinn said hastily.

“Well then. Where are you right now?”

“Lazytown,” Glanni rasped. “A – house. His house.” He paused. “In a room with three ottomans.”

“Well, he seems coherent enough now,” the doctor said, sticking the thermometer ruthlessly back in Glanni’s mouth. “Hold that under your tongue – if he gets delirious, you might consider taking him in, but the Lazytown health centre is a joke. Best if you just call me.” She turned her head, giving Íþróttaálfurinn a stern look. “Call me. Don’t appear on my balcony.”

“Of course,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, studiously pretending he didn’t feel Glanni looking at him. “Yes, doctor.”

She stood up, and Íþróttaálfurinn tried to back away, only to find the ottomans had blocked him in – and finally did the only thing he could think of, leaping to do a handstand on the back of the bed, before flipping his way to the doorway.

“Right then,” the doctor said. She made her way to the door, inching past Íþróttaálfurinn. He turned, taking one last look at Glanni. The other man looked exhausted – much more exhausted than he’d looked seconds ago, as if he’d been holding it in in front of company, his arms resting limp on top of the covers, his catsuit unzipped, the heavy comforter draped on top of him. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, like he was contemplating something.

He’d been awake when Íþróttaálfurinn had returned with the doctor, but hadn’t said much then either.

Íþróttaálfurinn turned, closing the door softly, before walking after the doctor.

“I’m leaving you with some things,” she was saying. “Painkillers, decongestants, the lot. Should help him get through this in one piece.” She flashes a faint smile at Íþróttaálfurinn. “I hope you’re prepared to be looking after your boyfriend for a week or two, though.”

“He’s-“ Íþróttaálfurinn started, his cheeks hot. “I mean, thank you. This helps a lot.”

She finally took a gander at the handcuffs, her expression pointedly not changing. “Lost the key, huh?”

Íþróttaálfurinn cleared his throat. “Well, actually- “

“Don’t worry about it. It’s happened to me too.”

“That’s nice,” said Íþróttaálfurinn, whose brain had momentarily started playing white noise. The doctor huffed out a laugh, snapping her bag shut.

“I- “ Íþróttaálfurinn shook himself, hurrying after her. “Do you want me to take you back to Mayhem, doctor?”

“No, I think I’ll take a cab,” the doctor said peacefully. “Which you’ll be paying for, of course. Have a good day, Sportacus.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Íþróttaálfurinn stood for a moment, before his body itched to move, and he shifted into a handstand restlessly.

He suddenly became aware of how quiet it was – and wondered whether he should go up to talk to Glanni, whether Glanni would even welcome the conversation. What could they say to each other, right now? So far, everything had been a blur of events one after another, and Íþróttaálfurinn had scarcely had the time to process it all.

He wondered whether he could persuade Glanni to eat some soup.

Suddenly, he heard the creak of a window, followed by a soft thump, and a muffled “ow” from outside.

Íþróttaálfurinn stared into the middle distance for a couple of seconds, before he shifted the right way up, going to the door and walking outside.

Glanni stood on the small yard, his arms wrapped around himself – staring blankly at the slowly increasing piles of snow.

“What do you think you’re even doing right now?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, stopping a short distance away. He hesitated, when the other man didn’t answer him immediately. “Glanni?”

“I’m really stuck here, aren’t I,” Glanni rasped out, not looking at Íþróttaálfurinn.

“You wouldn’t get far in this weather,” Íþróttaálfurinn agreed, raising his eyebrows. “Not in your condition.”

Glanni turned to him, finally, shoulders raised sharply against the cold, his brows furrowed deeply, mouth twisting unhappily.

“What are you going do to me?” he asked, quiet and hoarse. He looked small, despite his height - dark suit turning him into a cutout in the whiteness of his surroundings, a silhouette. 

Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath – bowed his head briefly, to stop looking into Glanni’s hypnotic, dark eyes, to gather his thoughts, to grasp the edges of the plan that was so slippery to him.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he said. “Until you’re better. That’s it. We’ll figure out the rest after that.” He looked up. “You’re the town’s responsibility now, and I’m responsible for the town. I’m not going to hurt you.” He paused. “Unless you do a stupid thing like jump out of the window again, in which case I might tie you to the bedpost.”

Glanni’s mouth twitched briefly.

“Maybe buy me dinner first, handsome.”

“Speaking of – of that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said quickly, lifting his wrists. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key for these?”

Glanni stared at the cuffs for a moment, almost as if he didn’t recognize them – and then stuck his hand inside his suit, drawing out a tiny key. Íþróttaálfurinn was suddenly extremely curious where he’d been keeping that.

“Much obliged,” he said, when the handcuffs clicked open, and he shook them off, letting them fall into the snow. Relief flooded him immediately: his surroundings getting sharper, brighter somehow, as magic returned to him, and he breathed in, deep and shaky. Glanni watched him in silence, his expression wary, uncertain.

After a moment, Íþróttaálfurinn held out his hand to him.

Glanni looked at it – and then took it, his nose wrinkling, as if making sure that Íþróttaálfurinn knew it was under protest, and then limped forward. His hand was cold, and there was, Íþróttaálfurinn noticed for the first time, some chipped purple nail polish on his fingernails. 

“Glanni,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, after a pause, “did you twist your ankle too?”

“This is how I always walk, Ibuprofen,” Glanni muttered sullenly. “It’s called style - oh, wait, it's you. I'll draw up some charts later.”

“I’ll get you some ice,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, resigned.

Chapter Text

Íþróttaálfurinn missed his basket.

Granted, it was a very nice house, with a very extensive selection of furniture: but somehow it didn’t quite seem to make up for the wind in his hair, or the coarse material of the blanket he usually slept in, or the overwhelming stench of propane.

The broken sleep had left him distinctly more tired than usual, gritty and with a bad taste in his mouth. This was in no way helped by the behaviour of his house guest.

“I could make you a nice salad!” he called out from the kitchen, peering into the depths of the fridge he’d hastily stocked up. He was answered by aggressive coughing.

“Soup?” he suggested next, his voice carrying upstairs.

“I will come down there and fight you!” Glanni called out. He continued coughing, completely undermining himself.

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, slamming the fridge door shut, and headed up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

Somehow Glanni, who came with no worldly possessions except for the clothes on his back, had managed to spread himself explosively all around the bedroom Íþróttaálfurinn had given to him. Even the sight of it gave Íþróttaálfurinn an irritated twinge: discarded tissues strewn about, magazines Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t even know he owned, plates and cups, scattered medications, and to top it all, a pair of high heels that looked like they could kill a man, lying docilely on the floor.

The man himself was sitting on the bed, with what appeared to be pillows pillaged from other rooms all shunted behind his back, coughing painfully.

“You have to eat something,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, leaning against the doorframe.

The problem was – the problem was that while he was used to dealing with people who didn’t necessarily burst with gratitude, Glanni seemed to actively want to fight him every step of the way. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t sure whether it was because of him, or whether Glanni just took sadistic joy in making people do his bidding with not as much as a thank you – scratch that, it was absolutely the latter.

And yet. And yet.

Why would you do anything for someone like me?

If only they could agree on something.

“I hate soup,” Glanni rasped. “I mean your soup. Specifically made by you. What do you put in it, besides vegetables?”

“Uh,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. “Vegetables?”

Glanni pulled a face at him.

“Couldn’t I have something sweet?” he whined. “Candy?” His eyes light up. “Chocolate? Ooh, can I have some chocolate?”

“No!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath, willing his teeth not to grind together. “Because it’s bad for you. That kind of sugar is bad for you. You’re in lousy enough health as it is, without adding that to the mix.” He paused. “What about apples? Or pears? They’re pretty sweet. ”

Glanni stared at him blankly.

“What?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked.

“Didn’t it hurt you enough the last time I threw something at your head?”

“Fine!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “Then don’t eat! What do I care, I’ve just saved your life repeatedly!” He turned, stalking back towards the stairs, and then grabbed the bannister to simply jump down, irritation and frustration winning common sense.

“Refraining from murdering me doesn’t count!” Glanni called out after him.

“Oh yes it does!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, landing perfectly on a thick Persian rug, moving to pace along its length for a moment, performing a particularly angry somersault. Chocolate! It turned his stomach to think about it – he didn’t have a particularly big sweet-tooth at the best of times, and the only time he’d tasted chocolate he’d been unable to get the sugary sweetness out of his mouth for days. Not to mention it’d made him incredibly drowsy and dull.

He was in the middle of contemplating whether to just pelt Glanni with vegetables and hope some of them would land in his mouth, when something occurred to him. He did have something else to offer. It might just work.

He made his speedy way to the kitchen.

*

“What’s this?” Glanni asked suspiciously, eyeing the bowl. He took the offered spoon, prodding gingerly.

“Frozen yogurt,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He was tense, had been ever since he handed the other man the bowl, staring at Glanni’s expression intently. “Sweetened with summer mango and a touch of maple syrup. Definitely not as sweet as the crap you like, but- “ he stopped himself. “I mean. You should at least try it.”

Glanni looked at Íþróttaálfurinn’s expression, and then dug the spoon in for a taste.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he licked his lips, blinking a little. “It’s good!” he said.

“Really?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked suspiciously. Glanni nodded enthusiastically.

“I like it,” he said, crooked smile tugging his lips. He seemed as startled by the turn of events as Íþróttaálfurinn. “It’s – not bad at all, Ibuprofen. It hits the spot. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

Íþróttaálfurinn leaned back, his shoulders sagging – he realized he was smiling too. Laughter bubbled up his chest and past his lips, and suddenly he couldn’t help himself, springing up to his feet from his crouch, to do a flip, or a somersault, or a roll or – something.

Glanni yelped, clutching his bowl against his chest protectively. “Watch it!”

“Sorry!” Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, settling on leaping across the bed to the other side.

“You’re way too happy about this,” Glanni said, exasperated, shoveling move yogurt into his mouth. “I said I liked it, I’m not going to marry it.”

“Of course,” Íþróttaálfurinn said primly, flopping down on a convenient ottoman, making a gesture as if zipping his lips. “No flipping, no laughing. I’ll just let you eat your yogurt in peace. You’re the patient here.”

He didn’t know why Glanni was blinking at him the way he was.

“What?” he asked. Their eyes met, and the other man swallowed.

“You’re- “ Glanni started, and then paused, looking down at his frozen yogurt, with a peculiar expression. “Never mind.”

He had a bit of yogurt on his lip, Íþróttaálfurinn noticed: and his cheeks were pink, which was a promising sight, since it meant Glanni might actually be getting better. He grinned helplessly. The other man glanced at him, scoffing quietly.

“Don’t make that face or it’ll get stuck that way.”

“What, smiling?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked dryly.

“Wouldn’t want to see that coming at me on a dark alley,” Glanni mumbled. Íþróttaálfurinn snorted, not feeling even the least bit irritated right now, and then leaned forward, dipping his finger into the yogurt for a taste.

This time Glanni did throw a box of tissues at him.

*

The snow crunched under his boots, the sound so loud in the silence that it seemed to fill the whole alleyway.

Íþróttaálfurinn inspected the overturned trashcans, their contents littered all over the ground. The cans were heavy, made of metal – it seemed unlikely to him that an animal could’ve knocked them over, especially for a third night in a row.

He stifled a yawn, and stepped over the garbage. The people who’d asked for his help, people living in this part of the town, had said they’d heard barking during the night – small things had gone missing, pots by the doorstep, garden gnomes, a pie cooling outside. Nothing awfully devious, or alarming in itself, but disconcerting nonetheless.

Íþróttaálfurinn paused, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the darkness in a way human eyes could not, and stared at the footprints on the snow. They were heavy, and numerous – more than one person had been in the alley.

Feeling like he was finally getting somewhere, Íþróttaálfurinn hurried to follow them along, his heart beating in his chest. Once, long, long time ago, elves had indulged in hunting – while Íþróttaálfurinn had no taste for it, there was something a little exhilarating in tracking someone. With the only sound his footsteps as his boots sank into the snow, he pushed on despite the cold. He wondered, idly, if Glanni was asleep already – even when sick, the man seemed to be keeping odd and decidedly unhealthy hours. Íþróttaálfurinn was fairly sure he’d heard him muttering to himself once at four in the morning.

They’d reached a sort of awkward, uneasy truce so far, while Glanni sweated and lounged on the bed, eating very little and coughing a lot. Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t help but worry, however, how difficult things might get once Glanni was better. He still didn’t have the faintest idea what he was planning to do with the man once he was well enough to go back to jail.

Suddenly shaken out of his thoughts, Íþróttaálfurinn realized the tracks had disappeared. He halted, looking around.

He was standing on the street, close to the sidewalk, but not close enough to assume the people leaving the tracks would’ve gone inside a building. The footprints, already half-buried by snow, simply… stopped. As if their owners had vanished into thin air.

For a while, Íþróttaálfurinn hopped around on the snowy street, looking for any indication of more tracks anywhere close by. He couldn’t find a single trace.

Finally, frustrated and sleep-deprived, he gave up, shaking the snow from his hat and starting his way back to the house.

*                             

Glanni wasn’t in his bed.

For a moment, Íþróttaálfurinn felt cold all over as he looked around, as if expecting the other man to jump out of a closet – mentally preparing himself to head out with a net and something shiny and distracting – when he heard a loud rattle in the bathroom as something fell on the floor.

He walked in, only to find Glanni rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, two dozen plastic flamingos crammed in the bathtub like an audience for a play.

“What are you doing?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked warily, leaning his shoulder on the doorway. “You should be in bed.”

“You don’t even own lip balm,” Glanni said incredulously. “How is that possible? How do you keep your lips like that? Is it magic? Arcane, ancient elven cosmetology?”

“I have no idea what’s in that cabinet,” Íþróttaálfurinn said carefully, “and my lips look like this because I drink enough water.” (Glanni gagged.) “Why do you need lip balm right now?”

Glanni made a frustrated sound, his knees apparently giving up the pretence of being strong enough to support him, as he sank onto the edge of the bathtub, giving Íþróttaálfurinn a sullen look. He was wearing a deep red, oversized bathrobe that Íþróttaálfurinn had found in a bag of clothes someone had left in one of the rooms – the pocket still had the initials M.M.M embroidered on it.

“I don’t need it, exactly – I just need something. Have you seen my face recently? I look ghoulish.” He wrinkled his nose. It was true he looked slightly different without the lipstick or the eyeshadow, as far as Íþróttaálfurinn could remember – not to mention the illness had turned him pale and permanently exhausted – but there was still that strange, expressive quality in his eyes that made him interesting to look at. Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t really understand what the fuss was about.

“You look fine to me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, before he could think about it, the words just falling out of his mouth. Inexplicably, the tip of his ears felt hot.

“Don’t patronize me!” Glanni snapped. “Do you think I care what you think of me?”

“I just thought –“ Íþróttaálfurinn started, irritated, “I know you don’t care about what I think – you know what, never mind, get back to bed-“

“I like the makeup,” Glanni said, gripping the sink to stand up. He eyed Íþróttaálfurinn with his mouth in a sullen curl, almost like he was regretting snapping at him. “I like how it makes me feel. Don’t you like how it feels to be – I don’t know, grossly muscular? Flipping around like a drunken frog?”

“I,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He felt like he needed to address the offending remarks in Glanni’s statement, but finally, all he could manage was “Well, I like how it feels to be myself, yes.”

Glanni leaned in, looming over him, his eyes narrowing. “Exactly.”

For a moment Íþróttaálfurinn searched for something to say, before he opened his mouth, rather unwisely.

“But it’s just gunk,” he said helplessly.

“You’re gunk!” Glanni said heatedly.

“Go to bed!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped. “It’s not essential for you to have your face painted while you’re recovering from pneumonia, Glæpur – you’re not here on vacation.”

Glanni leaned back, his mouth curling unpleasantly. “How could I forget. Sportacus knows what’s best for everyone, isn’t that right?”

Íþróttaálfurinn nearly bit his tongue, squaring his shoulders. “And Glanni Glæpur doesn’t care who he hurts or what he breaks,” he said, coldly. “As long as he can get what he wants. Right?”

“Right,” Glanni said, glaring at him – and then abruptly approached Íþróttaálfurinn, who felt something in his stomach twisting, before he stepped aside, plastering himself against the doorway.

Glanni sidled past him, with a haughty little sniff. Íþróttaálfurinn reached out – his fingers curling around Glanni’s thin wrist, before he could stop himself, holding on too tightly.

Glanni turned to look at him blankly, his lips pursed unpleasantly.

After a moment, Íþróttaálfurinn let go, warmth still lingering on his palm.

The other man turned, stalking towards his bedroom in a cacophony of coughing. Íþróttaálfurinn exhaled shakily, looking at the mess – Glanni had left everything he’d taken out from the cabinet where it was, lying around the sink and the floor. For a moment Íþróttaálfurinn wanted to call him back, force him to clean it up – and then he took a deep breath, exhaling again.

He did know best. Glanni could get by just as well without makeup. The man should’ve been in jail, right now, and instead he was luxuriating in Íþróttaálfurinn’s house, while Íþróttaálfurinn served him meals every day – what more could he want? Íþróttaálfurinn was in no way obligated to satisfy the other man’s seemingly endless vanity.

The flamingos were staring at him with their beady, plastic eyes. For some reason Íþróttaálfurinn felt like he was being judged.

He gritted his teeth, and then crouched down to start picking up cotton swabs.

*

Before Íþróttaálfurinn could even see the children, he could hear the shrieks and the laughter. Jogging onwards through the snow, he took a flying leap on the wall, crouching there effortlessly as he surveyed the scene on the other side.

A fierce snowball fight. By quick assessment, Íþróttaálfurinn could make out three teams – Stephanie and Trixie in one, Ziggy and Jives in the second, and Stingy and Pixel in third, although Stingy seemed more preoccupied with hoarding snowballs behind their makeshift fort. A smile tugged the corners of his lips, and for a moment he was content to watch - Jives had lifted Ziggy up on his shoulders to create an advantage of height, even though Ziggy had a terrible aim; Pixel seemed to be working through some kind of complex calculations, only firing up a ball every now and then with frightening accuracy; and Trixie leapt from behind their cover with a Zena-esque scream to perform a daring suicide mission, getting thoroughly pelted by snowballs.

Then Stephanie looked up, spotting Íþróttaálfurinn crouching on the wall, and let out a delighted shout, waving at him.

“Hey kids!” Íþróttaálfurinn greeted them, standing up, before he leapt down, flipping in the air and landing smack dab in the middle of the war zone. A snowball hit him immediately in the back.

“Pixel!” Stephanie scolded.

“Sorry!” Pixel called out, all too innocent. “It slipped.”

Íþróttaálfurinn grinned. “Don’t worry, Pixel, I’m just glad to see you all out and about. Nice shot, by the way.”

Pixel paused, ducking behind his fort awkwardly. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“We haven’t seen you in a while – pause, Ziggy, we’re pausing,” Stephanie said, waving her hands empathetically at the Ziggy/Jives fusion.

“Aw,” Ziggy said, a snowball in each hand.

“You can throw them at me,” Jives said gamely, tilting his head up. Ziggy laughed gleefully, before unwisely dropping one of the snowballs inside Jives’ collar.

“I’ve been busy,” Íþróttaálfurinn said carefully as Jives yelped, both boys going down in a cluster of flailing limbs. “Someone I know is – not feeling so well, so I’ve been helping them out.”

He really wasn’t sure how he’d go about explaining that he’d taken the megalomaniac who’d terrorized the town, tucked him in bed and was now twice-daily force-feeding him soup. There were a lot of things children seemed to understand easier than adults, but Íþróttaálfurinn rather doubted this was one of those things.

He looked down at Trixie, who was lying on the snow, still panting heavily, her hair escaped from the pigtails to spread as a wild messy halo around her head: and then at Stephanie, who was wearing a soft pink wool coat the colour of her hair, currently trying to coax Trixie back on her feet.

“Actually,” he said, awkwardly, feet shuffling in the snow. “I was wondering if you could – help me with something, girls.”

Stephanie looked up curiously, and smiled. “Of course we will! Right, Trixie?”

“Sure,” Trixie said muffledly. Stephanie took off her glove, using it to dust the snow off of Trixie.

“I need to.” Íþróttaálfurinn had no idea why he was doing this. He lowered his voice a tad, leaning in to talk to the two girls, feeling bizarrely shy. He’d never actually asked the kids for a favour before. “I need to buy makeup. Just – lipstick, uh – and other things? That. That go on the face?”

Stephanie stared at him, and then wrinkled her nose, exchanging glances with Trixie. Both of them frowned.

“Sure,” Stephanie said. “But, uh- “

“Yes?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, shifting restlessly.

She turned, calling out. “Stingy!”

The boy peeked his head cautiously amidst his collection of snowballs. He was wearing a pristine yellow winter cap on his head that no snowball had hit yet. “Yes?”

“Will you come and pick makeup with us?” Stephanie proceeded briskly.

“What-“ Íþróttaálfurinn started. Trixie shrugged.

“He’s got the best eye for colour. You want him in on this.”

Stingy stepped haughtily out from behind the fort, his chin tilted up high. The other boys shifted aside respectfully, eyeing Stingy with slightly awestruck expressions. Íþróttaálfurinn thought the sun might’ve peeked out just then, illuminating the boy with a sort of reverent light, but that might’ve just been his imagination.

He was sort of tempted to tell Stingy he looked like a show-horse lifting up his feet like that, but he just didn’t have the heart for it.

“What kind of makeup?” Stingy asked, eyeing Íþróttaálfurinn critically from head to toe.

 “Uh – all kinds, I suppose? What kind is there?”

Behind his back, Stephanie and Trixie tittered rather disrespectfully.

“This,” Stingy said, pausing as if savouring the next words coming out of his mouth, “is going to be… expensive.”

*

It was several hours later, that Íþróttaálfurinn found himself back at the house, oddly dainty shopping bags hanging from his wrists. He shut the door behind himself, and stopped, staring into the middle distance.

It had been a learning experience.

Of course, he’d known in some distant way that makeup was much more complex than the people who put it on daily made it seem – not that he’d got to witness that very often – but to have it all laid out while three prepubescent children and one very entertained young sales person all talked at once had been both disorienting and fascinating. Íþróttaálfurinn had never heard of eyelash curlers before, but if Glanni actually used one of those, he might not have been such a coward after all.

In the end, though, he’d resorted to buying all three kids flavoured lip balm just to get himself out of there. They would’ve allowed him to jump around only so much, especially after the near catastrophe at the perfume section.

Íþróttaálfurinn squared his shoulders, shaking himself out of his thoughts as he headed upstairs. Technically, he was still peeved about the earlier. Technically, he wasn’t going to reward Glanni’s obnoxious behaviour with presents.

He was still heading over to his room. Curse him and his enthusiasm for the joy of giving.

Glanni was coughing, sitting cross-legged on his bed, hunched in his enormous bathrobe. He was in the middle of cutting pictures out of a magazine, glancing up when Íþróttaálfurinn came in and then looking down again, with exaggerated disinterest, his nose wrinkling as if he’d smelled something bad.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“I’m not going to ask who else you were expecting,” Íþróttaálfurinn said briskly. “I see you haven’t eaten your banana.” He nodded at the fruit resting all the way across the room on a pile of magazines, as if put on display.

“That thing?” Glanni blinked. “I thought it was some kind of a funny paperweight.”

Íþróttaálfurinn could honestly not tell if he was joking or not.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this, but despite that- “ he walked over to the bed. “I have something for you.”

Glanni frowned, putting his scissors down warily. “What?”

Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face, as he took the bags, and unceremoniously dumped their contents onto the bed. Lipsticks, mascara, and several other weird pencils, brushes, palettes and other pastel-coloured and strangely named items tumbled out onto the sheets.

Glanni looked, for a moment, as if his eyes were going to bulge out of his head. He made a strangled sound, picking up one of the lipsticks and holding it up incredulously, looking at Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Oh, that?” Íþróttaálfurinn said, enjoying himself immensely. “It’s called Vixen’s Run. Apparently it doesn’t wash off even in the shower and that’s a good thing.”

“Ah!” Glanni said eloquently, grabbing more things. He seemed to be in some state of shock, looking between the items and Íþróttaálfurinn helplessly. “Ah?”

“I think the words you’re looking for,” Íþróttaálfurinn said smugly, “are ‘thank you’.”

“Thank,” Glanni started, looking up at Íþróttaálfurinn, his eyes enormous. “Thank you?”

He looked down, and then suddenly, let out a startled, genuine laugh, his teeth bared, his face – changing, in a way Íþróttaálfurinn hadn’t been prepared for, like the sun suddenly peeking out from behind the horizon and blinding you.

Íþróttaálfurinn realized why he’d done it – why he’d gone out of his way like this. Aside from the obvious, the loudly presented and ugly, he didn’t really know Glanni at all. If makeup would be the one to change that – if makeup would help Glanni be more like himself, if makeup really made him feel the way Íþróttaálfurinn felt when he could move and jump and run, then – makeup was what he would get. 

He was curious, Íþróttaálfurinn told himself. There had to be more to a person capable of destroying a whole town for money than just simple greed. There just had to be – more.

It had nothing to do with the way Glanni was gathering tubes of lipstick against his chest and cooing softly, although it was entertaining.

“Why the, uh, clippings?” he asked, gingerly positing himself on one of the ottomans.

“Reasons,” Glanni said, distracted and horrifyingly vague, as he shifted to make inventory of the things Íþróttaálfurinn had bought him. “Some of these are really good. And I once had a bath bomb made out of glitter and real flecks of gold.”

Íþróttaálfurinn wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“To be- “ Glanni stopped, looking up at Íþróttaálfurinn impatiently – and then started shuffling closer, abruptly. “Right. I’m doing your eyebrows. Take your stupid hat off.”

Íþróttaálfurinn kept his stupid hat on, grabbing it when Glanni suddenly got closer. “What do you mean, do my eyebrows? Are you going to pluck them?”

Glanni rolled his eyes. “No. Just a little enhancement – trust me, you’ll like it. You’ll look good – come on, hat off, Sportabrows! I won’t steal it this time.” He flashed a crooked, sweet little smirk, edging even closer, picking up some kind of a pencil.

Íþróttaálfurinn hesitated – and then pulled his hat off, the air feeling strange on the tips of his ears, eyeing Glanni stiffly.

The other man, in turn, had adopted an uncharacteristically shrewd, focused expression as he perched on the edge of his bed, reaching out, his hand on Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder to steady him – and then he leaned in, so close that Íþróttaálfurinn could feel his breath, moving the pencil along his eyebrow steadily.

Íþróttaálfurinn had a sudden and vivid flashback to the sensation of Glanni’s body against his, how Glanni squirmed and arched when he was crowded against a wall.

He swallowed, staring steadily at the spot between Glanni’s jaw and his neck.

“Are my brows really that bad?” he asked after a moment, lowly. Glanni paused, withdrawing his hand for a moment as he leaned back, his mouth curling slowly.

“They’re okay. I’ve just always wanted to see them a bit darker. Makeup’s great for – experimentation.”

The last word rolled off his tongue with all sorts of implications, dark and entertained. Íþróttaálfurinn had clearly been forgiven for the earlier argument – he dared to look up from Glanni’s collarbone, and their eyes met abruptly. Glanni’s mouth curled slowly, like a promise, and Íþróttaálfurinn got the feeling like he’d stepped into some kind of a play where the lines should’ve been in his head but weren’t.

“You’re not so bad, up close,” Glanni said lowly, as if he was seeing him for the first time.

You know, you’re a lot bigger up close.

“Are you flirting with me?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked abruptly. Glanni leaned back, just an inch or two, a deliberately thoughtful expression crossing his face.

“Maybe a little,” he said. “I mean, why not. Since I feel like it.”

Suddenly Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t hold it in any longer, the words coming out of his mouth before he could think them through. “You kissed me, before.”

“To get the keys in your pocket,” Glanni said patiently. “As you probably remember. Since, you know, you reacted as if I’d robbed your mother. What, been thinking about it a lot, big guy?” He smirked.

“Well – yes,” Íþróttaálfurinn said awkwardly. “The thing is – in my – our – my culture – with the elves – kissing like that, it’s- “

“Don’t tell me you were offended because of some purity thing-“

“No!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, and then relented. “Not exactly – what I mean is – kissing is – we can hug and kiss each other, our friends, brothers and sisters, parents, mentors – but kissing someone outside our circle is – it has special meaning.” He cleared his throat, struggling not to launch into a detailed description of his sexual history with the way Glanni was staring at him. “The thing is, I hadn’t – outside of that kind of familiar kissing, I hadn’t – which is why I got so angry. And punched you.” He paused. “I’m not going to apologize.”

Glanni was still staring at him. Íþróttaálfurinn could feel the mockery in his near future.

“It’s not like there’s some rule we all follow,” he said hastily. “It’s not – like that, it’s just, it’s how we’re brought up thinking – and I’ve had sex before- “ He stopped, his face overheated all the way down to his neck, his legs fidgeting restlessly. He felt like an idiot.

Glanni sat there for a moment, looking at him in silence, the pen dangling forgotten in his fingers – and they’d been having a moment, and Glanni had been smiling, and now Íþróttaálfurinn had gone and done the figurative backflip in the perfume section.

He pushed up on his feet abruptly, to leave.

“You know, I used to do ballet.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stopped, turning to stare at Glanni, who’d indeed uttered those words.

Glanni looked defensive. “If you’re going to sprout all that stuff I could use against you – I might as well give you something back. And I did sort of take your first kiss.”

“That’s not how it works,” Íþróttaálfurinn said automatically, and then: “Wait – are you serious? Ballet? You?”

“It’s a serious sport!” Glanni huffed. “Requiring constant practice and dedication and physical prowess-“

“I know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He felt the corners of his mouth rise incredulously. “That’s why I’m having trouble here.”

“I was fourteen. Believe me, by the time I was twenty-one I couldn’t even bend down to touch my toes-“

“I know that you mean that as a brag,” Íþróttaálfurinn said solemnly. “But it really isn’t that.”

He sat back down. Glanni had volunteered information about himself – Glanni had looked at him, and instead of laughing, he’d – what? Offered an eye for an eye? Tried to make Íþróttaálfurinn feel better about himself? God forbid.

The other man looked subtly indignant, putting his pencil down and dragging himself out of the bed, standing up.

“Right, pay attention!” he announced archly. “You might actually learn something here, Sportadoubter.” He put his arms down, palms held towards his waist, and then made eye-contact.

“Ballet basics. This is called the first position.”

“I can’t believe this happening,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, sitting back down. “Oh my god.”

“What did I just tell you?” Glanni said. He shuffled his legs and then lifted his arms into a horizontal line. “Second position. I only did one eyebrow, by the way. You look ridiculous.” He paused, arms in the air. “Actually gives you a sort of quizzical look. You should keep it. Confuse and terrify your enemies.”

“I’ll consider it,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, his mouth curling helplessly. His legs shifted, restlessly. He’d been sitting still for too long. “How many positions are there?”

“Five.” Glanni lifted one of his arms. “Now this – what’re you doing?”

Íþróttaálfurinn grinned, approaching Glanni daringly, holding out his hands. “I’m going to take you by the waist and lift you up. Like in Swan Lake.”

“What?” Glanni said, a burst of startled laughter escaping from his lips before he was backing away in the small space, scrambling on top of a loveseat like an enormous cat. “Don’t you dare-“

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, lunging forward to grab his newly appointed Odile, strangely giddy as his hands found the slim waist under the bathrobe, fingers curling above his hips, Glanni looking down at him with his eyes narrowed into slits – and the crystal attached to his hat let out a soft but insistent jingle.

He drew back sharply, like cold water pouring down his back. Glanni stared at him, bemused.  

“Someone’s in trouble,” he explained. “I’m sorry, I have to – go.”

He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for.

Glanni paused for a heartbeat, before he shrugged his shoulders lazily, seemingly disinterested.   

“It’s what you do, Ibuprofen.”

“Enjoy the makeup,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, to say something.

“You too,” Glanni said sweetly. Íþróttaálfurinn snorted, and turned – pausing at the door to glance back, watch Glanni settle back down with his new treasures – before he made his way outside.

Duty called.

*

The mailman’s bike had gone missing.

Big task, or a small one – Íþróttaálfurinn was here to help. Which was why found himself, hours later, wandering through the dark empty streets of Lazytown, following yet another set of tracks. The cold had seeped into him by now, and he wasn’t shivering anymore – keeping his extremities warm by jumping up and down occasionally, kicking the air.

The silence let his thoughts drift in and out of his mind, as he mechanically kept his eyes on the muddled and familiar footprints. Glanni’s confession still made him smile, ridiculously, helplessly, whenever he thought about it. It’d been a while, since he’d had a conversation like that with another adult: a conversation not revolving around the sole purpose of Íþróttaálfurinn’s role as the town hero.

He stopped, staring up at the dark sky. It’d started snowing again, gently.

He looked down. The tracks went on for a few more feet, half-gone under a fresh layer of snow, and then stopped, abruptly.

Íþróttaálfurinn stood there for a moment longer, trying to decide on his next course of action: and then just went home.

*

The house was dark when he came back. Out of a habit, because he liked to have something living and real, he lit the fire in the fireplace.

The sitting room had three rows of couches: one purple and clearly scratched by cats, one made of faded leather, and one, pushed far back against the wall, with wooden carvings of fat babies with wings. It was going to end up as firewood sooner rather than later.

He sat on the purple couch for a moment, before he got back up again, going up the stairs, taking four at a time.

Glanni was asleep – of course he was. Íþróttaálfurinn stopped at the doorway to the dark room, barely making him out from under his comforter. The makeup was still scattered on the bed, as if Glanni had decided to sleep with it. Íþróttaálfurinn honestly couldn’t put it past him.

He exhaled softly, turning his head.

He thought about dragging his basket indoors so he could nap in it in front of the fire.

“Ibuprofen…?”

Glanni was sitting up, rubbing his hand over his eye, his voice husky with sleep, like he’d been woken up by the mere presence of another person in the room.

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed, although he didn’t know why.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just came to check – you hadn’t decided to go rob a bank or something while I was away.”

“I need a whole other outfit for that.” Glanni paused, flopping to lie back down, lounging like a millionaire trophy wife. “What kept you? Cat didn’t want to come down from the tree?”

“It’s a- “ Íþróttaálfurinn hesitated. But what did it matter if he told Glanni? “I guess you could call it a – case. I think it’s the same person, or people. Things keep going missing, I follow the tracks left on the snow, and then tracks too just – disappear.”

“Huh,” Glanni said sleepily. His eyes were closed. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t even sure if he was actually awake anymore.

“I’m just going to- “ he started.

“Sewers,” Glanni mumbled. Íþróttaálfurinn froze.

“What?”

“Sewers,” Glanni said, a little louder – stirred, stretched luxuriously, and sat back up. He was wearing the Vixen’s Run, which looked every bit worth its price. “They’ve gone into the sewers, obviously – through the manholes. You just haven’t noticed because the snow covers it up.” He snorted. “It works best when it’s coming down heavy – I was the one who thought of it first, you know- “

“You- “ Íþróttaálfurinn stared. “You think – I mean, I guess that would make sense- “

“Of course it makes sense,” Glanni huffed. “Hello? Glanni Glæpur, a criminal mastermind? Sewers are so useful. They go throughout the city, entrances all around, you can put children down there if they’re being annoying- “

Íþróttaálfurinn studiously ignored that last part, because Glanni had just give him a breakthrough. And it’d been so obvious. He was blinking rapidly.

Something else occurred to him too – something that might just fix his problem, something that felt like the right solution, for once, felt correct all down to his bones.

“I would’ve never thought of that,” he said slowly. “Thank you – Glanni.”

“I guess it’s only obviously when you’re as smart as me,” Glanni said smugly, sleep still lingering in his eyes.

“Or as morally corrupt,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, and then paused, before he continued: “It gives me an idea – uh, something. Something that I think you might find beneficial.”

“Ohh?” Glanni said – wary now.

Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath. “I was thinking – while you’re recovering, maybe if you’d – if you’d help me with this, and – a couple of other things in Mayhemtown, I could – we could strike up a deal. I make both towns a better place with your help, and once you’re better, you- “ he hesitated. “You conveniently escape. Slip past me. And go wherever you want to go.”

Glanni stared at him.

“Sounds an awful lot like snitching,” he said eventually. “Sounds an awful lot like work.”

“Didn’t you just offer me information for free?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked. Glanni considered.

“That’s true,” he said. “Must’ve been because I was barely awake. I can’t let you take advantage of me like that!” He paused, his eyes glittering in a way that made the muscles in Íþróttaálfurinn’s face twitch, made him want to smile – and then he held out his hand, shaking it out of the sleeve of his robe, for Íþróttaálfurinn to shake. “You know what? I accept your proposition. Surprisingly morally ambiguous for you, by the way, I like that.”

“It’s sensible,” Íþróttaálfurinn corrected. “This doesn’t mean what you did was okay, by the way – if you ever feel like apologizing to the others- “

“Just shake my hand, Ibuprofen,” Glanni said irritably.

Now Íþróttaálfurinn let himself smile, some unknown tension he’d been holding in the back of his head dissipating: because this time they wouldn’t end up fighting over his suggestion.

He reached out, clasping Glanni’s hand in his.

“It’s a deal.”

Chapter Text

It’d finally stopped snowing last night.

Íþróttaálfurinn stood by the kitchen counter, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in hand, as he stared outside at the glittering mounds of snow, morning sun making its best effort to turn everything bright and new. He opened the window, and took a deep inhale, breathing in the cold, sharp air, his bare toes curling against the floor in pleasure. He’d woken up bright and early, he’d had his workout, and felt more awake than he had in days. He’d managed to fix things with Glanni too: they were getting along better than ever, now that they had a common goal to work towards.

He felt at ease: he felt resolved.

Glanni sashayed in, wearing only a worn-thin Lion King towel wrapped around his hips, and beamed at him. Íþróttaálfurinn choked on his juice.

“Do you have any coffee?” Glanni said, prowling past Íþróttaálfurinn to the cupboard.

His hair was wet, lying flat and ink-black against his scalp. There were still droplets of water clinging to his shoulders. Íþróttaálfurinn had orange pulp all over his jaw.

“No,” he said hoarsely, and then coughed, clearing his throat. “I made juice. You should have some. Ah. Vitamins.” 

Glanni made a face, Íþróttaálfurinn could see it from profile, as he continued rummaging around. This was the first time Íþróttaálfurinn had seen him downstairs like this – it was odd, somehow out of balance, to see him outside his bedroom. It suddenly made it more obvious that Glanni was roaming free.

“You can’t hide scurvy with foundation, Glanni,” he said pointedly.

“Shows what you know,” Glanni said, pulling out a jar of honey absently. “I’ve hidden not one, but two simultaneous black eyes with foundation. I should’ve won some kind of a medal.” He paused, wrinkling his nose, staring into the middle distance as if reviewing his life for all the missed opportunities for shiny awards, mouth curled down in a brief sulk.

“Ah yes,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He was trying not to stare. Simba’s head was in an extremely awkward spot, and the cartoon eyes kept drawing him in where he shouldn’t look. “The medal of Really Bad Life Choices. I hear it’s all rigged anyway, the same guys always win.”

Glanni barked a sudden, startled laugh as he filled a cup with water, glancing at Íþróttaálfurinn from the corner of his eye with that glint that made him want to smile too.

There were a few scars on him, here and there – little nicks on his shoulder, thin lines on his chest. The treacherous sun crept past the curtains, bathing him in weak, cold light, turning his skin much too pale, almost sallow, his hips poking out a bit – but still Íþróttaálfurinn became vividly, tangibly aware of his presence in the shared, confined space of the kitchen, the water resting on Glanni’s collarbone, the lazy, inviting bareness of his body just there. He felt his breath become shallow in his chest, hard to take in.

Íþróttaálfurinn suddenly wondered what it’d be like, to cross the short distance, to push himself into Glanni’s space and run his hands against all that expanse of skin.

He could feel his heart starting to beat in his ears, his own Bad Life Choices looming behind the corner as if ready to pounce, his body already tensing for the task. He suddenly needed a distraction and quickly.

Glanni took the jar of honey, and casually started pouring it into his cup of water. It worked like a lukewarm shower.

“No,” Íþróttaálfurinn said immediately, forcefully. “No.”

“But-“

“I’ll punch you in the face and take away your makeup.”

Glanni pushed the cup and the honey away crankily. “Some hero you are. You disgust me, Ibuprofen.”

“Hey, that’s my line,” Íþróttaálfurinn said mildly, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He reached out, gently nudging the cup as far away from Glanni as possible.

“Taking away sick man’s last pleasure- “ 

“You can’t be that sick if you’re parading around here in that number- “ Íþróttaálfurinn shut up suddenly, feeling like focusing on the towel was heading to a very dangerous territory. He swallowed. “In fact – let’s get you some clothes. Right now. On you. On your body.” 

“As opposed to…?”

Why was Glanni smirking like that? Íþróttaálfurinn thrusted his orange juice at him, a tad too forceful.

“Drink it. Or I’ll put citrus in everything you love.”

The sun continued to shine, mocking him, as he rushed out of the room.

*

Íþróttaálfurinn reflected, a few hours afterwards, how he really should’ve asked what Glanni had done with all the garden flamingos that were in the bathroom.

The plastic birds were set strategically around Glanni’s bed as if he wanted a constant artificial audience, which he probably did. Íþróttaálfurinn hunkered awkwardly amongst them, feeling bizarrely out of place in his own house. They smelled like rain and grass and had permanently critical expressions on their badly painted faces, and they would probably haunt his dreams.

Íþróttaálfurinn was pretty sure there had been more of them, too. He could only darkly ponder when, and where the rest would turn up.

He struggled. He had to ask. “Why?”

“Why not?” Glanni said absently, emptying yet another bag of discarded clothes onto the bed. “They make me feel cosy. Like I’m somewhere exotic, and not crashing in a furniture outlet store.” He made a face. “Again.”

“They’re creepy and probably moldy,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. “Wait, what am I even doing here?” He shifted his legs restlessly. “I got the bags down from the attic for you. I thought my job was done.”

He probably wouldn’t have minded so much, but Glanni’s towel kept slipping down, and every time Glanni reached to adjust it, Íþróttaálfurinn could only focus on his hands as if his eyes were made of metal and they were magnets. Glanni was doing the adjusting slower and slower, letting the towel go ever so much further down each time, before tucking it up.  It was – irritating. How long could it take for one person to get dressed decently?

Íþróttaálfurinn had no idea what’d gotten into him. Somehow he’d gone from tolerating Glanni’s continued presence to being uncomfortably aware that Glanni, in fact, had hips. And other body parts. It was unbearable.

“What do you think of this?” Glanni said brightly, lifting up what could only be described as a child-sized t-shirt, of an offensive neon green shade. It had the word MINE in bright yellow letters on it.

“You – you want me to judge clothes for you?” Íþróttaálfurinn said, incredulous and slightly horrified. “This is my only outfit, Glanni. You’ve reminded me about it several times. Once when you were delirious with fever. Why would you want my opinion?”

Glanni huffed, wrinkling his nose at Íþróttaálfurinn. “Well, you’re the only one I’ve got. It’s not like Ronnie or Eugene are any good at it.”

It took Íþróttaálfurinn a moment. “You named the flamingos?”

Glanni tilted his head back, laughing derisively. “Don’t be stupid, I’m a convict and a criminal genius, not a small child. I don’t name inanimate objects - that was a joke.”

He paused, looked at Íþróttaálfurinn in the eyes and smirked. “You’re squishing Carolyn.”

“Oh, sorry,” Íþróttaálfurinn said automatically, leaning back from a slightly bent flamingo, and then paused. Glanni had him apologizing to fake birds now.

His towel had reached a near critical amount of slippage: Íþróttaálfurinn thought about just yanking it off and his whole face turned hot, the squirming sensation in his chest traveling down, all the way down, and he shifted restlessly.

Oblivious to his plight, Glanni pulled out what was just a literal Santa Claus costume.

“What about this, do you think it’s- “

“Just put something on!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, springing up on his feet, intending to do upside down push-ups in the small space. 

Something melodic and strange jingled downstairs.

It took Íþróttaálfurinn a few seconds to realize it was the doorbell – and then another few for him to tense up in alarm.

“Stay here,” he ordered Glanni, stalking out of the room, grasping the bannister and just sliding down, coming to the end with a smooth stop and a backflip onto his feet, landing right by the door.

He hesitated. He considered pretending he wasn’t home. And then opened it gingerly.

Stephanie’s heart-shaped face beamed up at him, bundled up in her pink winter-gear, her cheeks flushed with cold.

“Hi Sportacus!”

Íþróttaálfurinn, to his defence, stifled the urge to slam the door in panic, and instead forced himself to smile, his insides twisting uncomfortably.

“Stephanie. Ah – what’re you doing here?”

“I came to bring you these,” Stephanie said, undeterred, lifting up a box. “Carrot and oatmeal cookies. And I wanted to see your house!” She shifted from foot to foot, her eyes bright.

“Thank you,” Íþróttaálfurinn said helplessly, accepting the box so earnestly pushed into his hands. “I mean it, this is very thoughtful – only, now isn’t exactly the best time for- “

“ – and, and I was hoping, maybe later you’d come sledding with us- “

“Stephanie- “

To his horror, a voice drifted behind him. “Here, I put on some pants. You happy now, Sportaprude? I’ll have you know a lot of people would consider it a crime to- ”

He whirled around, just in time to watch Glanni come down the stairs. He was wearing a surprisingly modest get-up of jeans and a turtleneck sweater with rhinestones sewed onto it – any other time Íþróttaálfurinn would’ve been relieved to see it. Right now he felt like he was going to have a heart attack.

The other man looked startled when he spotted Stephanie, stopping a few steps from the floor, gripping the banister.

His painted lips curled in a grimace.

“Shit.”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned back to Stephanie just as she drew a sharp breath, her eyes as wide as saucers.

“Glanni Gl- mmfh!”

“I’m sorry!” Íþróttaálfurinn yelped, covering her mouth and pulling her inside. “I’m sorry, Stephanie – please don’t yell, everything’s okay –“ He hastily withdrew his hand.

“Sportacus!” Stephanie gasped, her voice climbing several octaves – backing away from him. Worry and guilt washed over Íþróttaálfurinn in waves. “That’s – you have – he’s in your house!”

“Astute observation, little girl,” drawled Glanni, helpfully, examining his nails. Stephanie stumbled back, two of the three hat stands tumbling down in her wake.

“I can explain!” Íþróttaálfurinn said, feeling very much like he couldn’t and he was just sprouting cliches. “Just – Stephanie, please – it’s all right, I swear, there is a reasonable explanation for this- “

“He’s supposed to be in prison!”

Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath – he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to stop Stephanie’s expression creeping towards panic when his words weren’t getting through her – so he used the only thing he knew would work.

He reached out, his magic enveloping her gently.

“Go into the sitting room, Stephanie,” he said softly. She went stiff. “Deep breaths. Everything is okay.”

Stephanie’s expression grew lax, regret like a stab of pain in Íþróttaálfurinn’s chest, as she nodded dreamily and walked through to the other room, still in her winter clothes.

He turned to Glanni. The other man was watching him with an inscrutable expression, his eyes as flat and reflective as a pool of water.

“I,” Íþróttaálfurinn started, swallowing. He searched for an explanation. “This is your fault,” he said finally, hoarsely. 

“I know,” Glanni said. He arched an eyebrow, as if he was less than impressed, and it didn’t dissuade Íþróttaálfurinn’s guilt one bit. He rubbed a hand over his face, angrily.

“Stay here,” he said. “Let me talk to her, please. I can fix this.”

“I abhor children,” Glanni drawled. “But they are gullible, you know. Hint hint.”

Íþróttaálfurinn glared at him. In that moment, Glanni was the ugly little man Íþróttaálfurinn had first spotted in his cell.

 Then he exhaled, letting out whatever had been building inside him, as turned and prowled to the other room, where Stephanie sat, waiting.

*

“And that’s how it is,” Íþróttaálfurinn finished, lamely.

Stephanie looked at him silently, and he squirmed, the air around them heavy with the weight of his words. Glamour-free, her eyes were sharp and confused, and she’d listened to his whole story quietly, not even once interrupting. Her scarf rested on her lap, her fingers fiddling with it restlessly.

He’d tried to make his explanation as truthful as possible while also leaving out the parts that involved kissing, or violence, or kissing followed by violence, which, really, had been one and the situation: he’d tried being as honest as he could, presuming, hoping, that it was the wisest course of action at this point.

Stephanie kept looking at him, her fingers twisting and knotting the fabric, as if she was thinking, as if she was worried. 

“It wasn’t my best plan,” Íþróttaálfurinn offered hesitantly. “It’s just how things turned out.”

The silence reigned, several clocks in the room ticking, quietly out of rhythm with each other.

Finally, she opened her mouth, and spoke. “You lied to us.” And her expression changed – the emotions she had been stubbornly holding back threatening to well her eyes with tears, and Íþróttaálfurinn felt actual panic rising in his chest.

“I know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said hastily, his voice lowering, soft. “I know, and I’m – I can’t apologize enough, Stephanie. I just didn’t think I had any other options.”

“What’s going to happen to him after he’s better?”

“He,” Íþróttaálfurinn started, feeling cold all over, swallowing. He’d been congratulating himself over his deal with Glanni this morning: but he didn’t think he could, in any conceivable way, explain it to her, to make excuses for Glanni.

“He’ll go back to jail, of course,” he said weakly.

Stephanie nodded slowly, if not completely mollified, then at least relieved.

“He was awful to Trixie,” she said, heatedly, suddenly. “I mean, he lied to us all, but he made Trixie feel so bad about herself. He deserves to be in jail.”

“She,” Íþróttaálfurinn hesitated. “Well, at least she has you, now?”

“Are you going to tell her?” Stephanie said, sitting up straight, her chin tilting up, somehow surprisingly intimidating for a ten-year-old. “Are you going to tell the others too? My uncle?”

“I don’t know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said desperately, leaning back, fiddling with his hands, nervous tension coiling in his chest. “I – I think – I mean, you’re right, of course I should, I just- “

“Just what?” Stephanie demanded.

“Oh, let him be, you brat,” a voice drawled from the doorway. “What was he gonna do, just let me waste away like a Victorian heroine?”

Íþróttaálfurinn and Stephanie turned, as if synchronized, to stare at Glanni who was lounging against the doorway. He’d changed again – this time wearing a shirt with some very strange ruffles.

“Well he- “ Stephanie started, heatedly, and then stopped. “He could’ve just gotten a doctor,” she finished lamely.

“Who’d done what? Given me some painkillers and left me there? Face it, girlie – he did the only thing his stupid hero principles could let him do. It’s not like he was happy about it.” He turned to Íþróttaálfurinn, painted lips twitching unpleasantly in a sneer, his voice silky. “Or were you, schnookums?”

Íþróttaálfurinn could feel Stephanie’s eyes on him. He swallowed, feeling, bizarrely, like he was being rescued, his jaw working as he unclenched it, slowly.

“Well,” he said slowly. “No. No I wasn’t.”

“See? So can you just-“

“But- “ Íþróttaálfurinn continued, staring at Glanni, who closed his mouth, eyebrows raised up high. “It’s not so bad now. I mean – aside from his horrific diet, the complete lack of morals, his obsession with my eyebrows- “

“It’s not obsessive to want to put some glitter on them-“

“He’s not so bad,” Íþróttaálfurinn finished, forcefully. He couldn’t look at Stephanie, and now he couldn’t look at Glanni either – relief and anxiety intermingling, leaving his inside weak and shaky. “He – in fact, I think he’s – redeemable.”

Glanni drew a sharp, indignant gasp.

Stephanie licked her lips – and then offered a hesitant smile, something helplessly fond in her eyes.

“Of course you’d think that, Sportacus,” she said softly – and Íþróttaálfurinn released a breath, smiling back at her weakly.

“Everything is going to work out,” he told her, earnestly. “There is always a way, Stephanie. It’s just that for now, Glanni is going to stay here.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Stephanie said. “I was only saying that stuff because I was upset. I mean – I get it, I do. You did it because you had to.”

“That’s right,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, all too eager to jump in now that she wasn’t looking at him like she didn’t recognize him, anymore. “I would never betray any of you, Stephanie. I promise. I – I love this town.”

“It’s okay, Sportacus,” Stephanie’s mouth was curled in a tiny, hesitant smile. “You don’t have to – it’s okay.” She ducked her head awkwardly, blinking rapidly. “You’ve done so much for us already, I feel bad for – thinking you would do anything to hurt us.”

“No, Stephanie, it was completely my fault- “

“Ugh,” Glanni said. “You’re both sorry, I’m nauseous, can we wrap this up?”

Íþróttaálfurinn glanced at him, and then abruptly stood up, making some kind of a decision. Stephanie blinked, moving as if to follow him. He gestured for her to sit back down.

“I’m going to make us all tea,” Íþróttaálfurinn said firmly. “You can – stay, and we can talk a bit more about what to do next. If you feel comfortable, Glanni will sit with us. And – maybe we can talk about that sledding too.” He flashed a tentative grin at Stephanie, who grinned back, starting from one corner of her mouth and spreading, as she finally started to shed her coat.

Íþróttaálfurinn turned, walking towards the door, and Glanni.

“Behave yourself,” he said, under his breath, to the other man, and then: “Uh – maybe you two can talk about – I don’t know, Glanni’s shirt?”

“It’s not working, is it?” Glanni said immediately, looking down at himself with a grimace. “It needs more ruffles.”

Stephanie frowned, eyeing him carefully. “I think you might be wearing it backwards, um – Mister Glæpur.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stalked hastily to the kitchen, switching the kettle on as he grabbed the cups, keeping his ear tuned to the soft murmur in the other room.

He felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin – relief and guilt and triumph and worry all roiling inside him, taking turns in making his thoughts a muddled mess. He wanted to jump up and down, he wanted to lay down and just wheeze. He’d never felt this way before – this small and terrified in the face of losing the respect and friendship of someone he cared about, as if he’d had a near death experience. And what he’d said to Glanni – Íþróttaálfurinn stopped, staring at the bags of green tea blankly.

He hadn’t really thought about it, but it had been true. Somehow – Glanni didn’t seem like he’d actually changed that much, but he’d become tolerable. Entertaining. Fun, even, sometimes.

Was it Íþróttaálfurinn who’d changed?

He shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the water to boil, and then dropped down to do push-ups.

Obviously mind had to be stronger than flesh – if Íþróttaálfurinn was going to keep the fragile balance they had, it was going to be a lot easier without actually giving in to his urges. That’s all they were. Urges. And Glanni would get better and leave town, just as agreed. There, his problem solved.

The soft conversation in the other room continued, Glanni’s voice smooth and deep, strangely soothing.

A loud sound startled him out of his counting, and he sprung up on his feet. It was Stephanie, yelling something he couldn’t quite make out, so he went to the kitchen door – just in time to see her come out of the other room, her hand over her eyes. She all but ran to the front door.

“Steph- “ Íþróttaálfurinn started, but she paid him no mind, yanking the door open and disappearing outside to the chilly, sunny winter midday.

Íþróttaálfurinn cursed under his breath, stalking to the sitting room. Glanni opened his mouth when Íþróttaálfurinn came in.

“It wasn’t- “

He crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat.

“What did you do?” Íþróttaálfurinn snarled, his fingers curling into the material of Glanni’s shirt. The other man bared his teeth in a grimace, holding his hands up in a desperately placating gesture, but there was an angry glint in his eyes.

“I just talked to her! You were the one who-“

“She was crying! I vouched for you!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, pushing Glanni backwards, gripping his shirt, shaking him. The image of Stephanie running off kept replaying in his head, over and over again, something white-hot filling the inside of his head. “I trusted you! Why would you-“ 

“I told her what you should’ve told her!” Glanni snapped, as if that was any explanation, fingers curling around Íþróttaálfurinn’s wrist.

“I tell her what she needs to know! And nothing more!” Íþróttaálfurinn yelled hoarsely, desperately – and then let go of Glanni suddenly, pushing him ungently back to the couch, backing away. Glanni was panting, staring at him.

A pause – and Íþróttaálfurinn turned to look away first.

He rubbed his face, his heart hammering in his chest. “Forget this – I need to go talk to her- “

“Or magic away her bad feelings,” Glanni sneered abruptly, where he was sprawled on the couch, his cheeks flushed, the neck of his shirt stretched shapeless.

“Not another word,” Íþróttaálfurinn said coldly. “Five minutes with you and she’s already out the door. I don’t blame her, Glæpur. Stay in the house.”

Glanni said nothing – merely pressed against the couch cushions, crossing his arms, eyeing Íþróttaálfurinn with sullenness he couldn’t at that moment tolerate. He itched to give the other man a good smack, just once.

Instead he turned, stalking off to find his shoes.

*

After several hours of fruitless searching, Íþróttaálfurinn felt rather stupid when he realized Stephanie had simply gone home. Apparently some people did that, instead of going off on a parkour tour across town. 

He stood, ankle-deep in snow, staring at the light in her window, her pink curtains – and then took a deep breath, jumping on a trashcan, grabbing the rain pipe, and using it to swing himself onto the edge of her window, hauling himself up enough to knock on the glass lightly.

He saw movement inside – and then Stephanie drew back the curtains, staring at him for a moment, before she reluctantly opened the latch.

“Hey,” Íþróttaálfurinn breathed out. “Are you okay?”

Stephanie bowed her head, not saying anything – but she took a step back, as if indicating he should come in. Íþróttaálfurinn grunted, pulling himself onto the windowsill and perching there.

She walked back to her bed, sitting down, toying with the hem of her skirt.

“Do you want to talk about it, Stephanie?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked softly.

She hesitated – and then nodded, mutely. Íþróttaálfurinn exhaled, shifting his position, and then continued, lowly.

“Will you tell me what he said to you?”

“I don’t,” Stephanie said, lifting her head. “I don’t remember exactly.” She hesitated.

“Anything you do remember, you can tell me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, quiet and encouraging, even if he was feeling hollow on the inside. What a stupid, trusting fool he was.

“He- “ Stephanie wiped her eyes, and then took a deep breath, as if settling herself, finally looking at Íþróttaálfurinn. “He started talking – and I was answering – and then – suddenly he was saying stuff like – that if I didn’t get my head out of the clouds and wise up – bad people, people who didn’t care about me, might trick me.”

“…Ah.”

Íþróttaálfurinn had to admit – it wasn’t quite what he’d expected to hear.

“And- “ Stephanie continued, wiping her eyes, “he said I should – stop – agreeing with you about everything just because I like you, because it was so obvious and I was being stupid. He said you weren’t perfect and I should think for myself, with what brain I had- “ She interrupted herself, heatedly. “I don’t do that! I told him that and he just laughed at me-“

“He shouldn’t have said it,” Íþróttaálfurinn hurried to agree.

“And he kept saying that I should wise up and – and stop thinking my friends are my friends, because sometimes they aren’t, and- “

“I – I think I get it, Stephanie,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He rubbed his temple, staring at her. She was upset, yes, but also – somehow annoyed, her shoulders hunched and her mouth a tight, crooked line. He’d thought – he wasn’t sure what he’d thought, but he hadn’t thought that this what Glanni had been after.

“He was extremely rude to you,” he said slowly, softly. “And trust me, I’m going to have a serious talk with him. This was unacceptable – and you had every right to get upset.” He took a deep breath. He really hoped he was going to the right direction with this. Damnit, Glanni. “That said – I think – considering some of the events of late, I think it’s good for you to remember that trust is earned.”

Stephanie sniffed, looking a little suspicious – but she asked, anyway. “What does that mean?”

“It means – that you should only trust the people who show that they can be trusted. It shouldn’t be something you give to everyone automatically.” Íþróttaálfurinn hesitated, staring at her pink bedcover blankly. “It doesn’t mean you should be suspicious of every stranger, or not trust your friends. Glanni was wrong about that.”

Stephanie slowly uncurled her fingers from her dress, as she nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I know I can trust Trixie because she promised never to shoot her sling at me – and she hasn’t.”

“Exactly,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, relief washing over him as he gave her a smile. “But if, say, a man claiming to be rich and powerful comes into town- “

“I shouldn’t trust him just because of that,” Stephanie said slowly, and then smiled, hesitantly. “I understand. I should trust people like Trixie – and you, of course.”

Íþróttaálfurinn looked at her.

He’d brought an apple with him, because he knew they were Stephanie’s favourite. He’d thought – he’d have a talk with her, and fix everything, and give her the apple and go back home. He’d thought that would be the end of it.

And yet.

Something cold and hollow lingered in the pit of his stomach, because Stephanie trusted him, and Glanni had looked at him, and then had taken it upon himself to tell her not to... 

“Stephanie,” he said abruptly. “I need to tell you something – about myself.”

Stephanie blinked in surprise. “What is it, Sportacus?”

He curled his fingers to the edge of his cap, and then averted his eyes: before pulling it off in one, smooth motion. 

“I’m – I’m an elf,” he said staring at the floor. Stephanie made a sound as if to say something, but he continued, before he lost his nerve.

“It doesn’t really change a lot of things – it doesn’t, I swear. Except – elves have magic. And I have to tell you, Stephanie – that once, or twice, I’ve used it – on you. Nothing too bad – just to nudge a bit, when – when I didn’t know what else to do, and things needed to go some way.” He swallowed, and then continued, stumbling over his words. “But – I said I’d never hurt you, any of you, and I want you to trust me. And – I want you to know the truth, in order for that – to be true, do you understand?”

He looked up. Stephanie was staring at him in silence, and he swallowed – and thought, too many surprises in one day. She wouldn’t – and it’d be completely understandable, completely explainable why she couldn’t trust him, not after today-

“I’ll leave town,” he said abruptly, hoarsely. “If this upsets you – I’ll leave town. But I promise – like Trixie promised – that I’ll never use magic on you again.”

For a moment, there was silence.

“It doesn’t – upset me,” Stephanie said quietly. Her hands were on her lap, and she was staring at them.

“It doesn’t?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked. “Only, you seem-“

“I don’t want you to leave,” Stephanie interrupted, her voice small. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Oh,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He felt ill. He felt – he felt as he deserved to feel, he supposed.

“And – if you promise you won’t – then I trust you. At least you told me.”

Íþróttaálfurinn ducked his head, unable to look at her any longer. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he could say.

Stephanie spoke again – quiet, subdued, she was tired after all these revelations. “You should probably go. It’s almost dinner time.”

Íþróttaálfurinn climbed down the same way he came up.

He didn’t give her the apple.

*

Glanni hadn’t turned on the lights – Íþróttaálfurinn came back to find him in the same seat he’d left him.

Glanni had changed back to his earlier sweater, too, picking at the sleeves haughtily.

Íþróttaálfurinn stopped by the doorway, and the two of them stared at each other.

He was exhausted, worn thin with what had happened only in the span of one day, like he might tear soon. He found himself almost hoping Glanni would say something nasty, something selfish and unpleasant, and Íþróttaálfurinn could – he could-

“Why did you tell her all that?” he asked, quietly.

Glanni blinked – and then shrugged, examining his fingernails.

“Someone should’ve,” he said, dismissively. “It’s not like life’s all that – dancing and singing and friendship forever.”

“She’s ten,” Íþróttaálfurinn said lowly. “She doesn’t have to think about it yet.”

“You don’t know that,” Glanni growled abruptly, almost reflexively. As if he’d hit a nerve. Íþróttaálfurinn stared at him.

“You were trying,” he said slowly, coming to the realization as he spoke, “you were trying to help her. Why?”

“I was trying to make her cry!” Glanni snapped. “It’s a hobby of mine, decided to pick it up again - “

“And what you said about me-“

“She was going on and on about you! What a generous, heroic soul you were, rescuing someone like me-“

Íþróttaálfurinn held up his hand. Glanni closed his mouth, and then looked irritated that he’d done that.

“I get what you were doing,” Íþróttaálfurinn said hoarsely – tired, but no longer angry. He wasn’t sure what he felt, staring at Glanni in the dark. One minute he’d wanted to punch the other man’s oversized teeth in, and now – now, he didn’t. This is what Glanni did to him, confused him just by being him. 

“I wasn’t- “

“It was bad,” Íþróttaálfurinn interrupted. “You were really bad at it. You made her cry – and you will apologize for that. Just because you were right doesn’t mean – you weren’t awful.”

He held up his hand again, when Glanni was about to speak.

“I’m going to sleep now,” he announced. “If I find any flamingos in my bed, I’ll put you outside with the lot of them.” He turned to go. “Good night, Glanni.”

Once again, he left the other man sitting by himself amidst the couches.

*

The next day was… odd.

Granted, Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t feel angry anymore, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t - something. They gave each other a wide berth in the kitchen, and Glanni didn’t say much – but he didn’t seem angry either. Rather, he seemed almost chastised, with the way he drank his orange juice without kicking up a fuss, back in his old black catsuit. God forbid. It was – stiff and uncomfortable, too quiet.

Íþróttaálfurinn tried, many times, to say something, but he wasn’t quite sure how to start a conversation, all of a sudden. How had he been talking to Glanni before? What had they talked about? His mind was blank, as if they were back to being complete strangers – although, even then Glanni had had no problems insulting him.

Their eyes met by accident, across the kitchen, and Glanni looked away hastily.

Suddenly, there was a brisk knock on the door.

Íþróttaálfurinn started towards it, when it flung open – and he realized he should probably start locking it – as Stephanie marched in, clad in her extensive winter gear and hauling her school bag. Her mouth was set in a rather impressively determined line, chin pushed up, and she was tracking in snow. She was obviously a girl On A Mission, even if her hat kept slipping over her eyes.

“What- “ Íþróttaálfurinn started, and then, blinking rapidly, “Stephanie, I didn’t think you’d-“

“Good morning, Sportacus!” Stephanie greeted him, her face melting into a sunny smile before she adopted her stern expression again. “I decided that you might need some help, taking care of a sick person all by yourself. So I came to spend the Sunday with you.”

Glanni trailed after Íþróttaálfurinn, pausing to stare at Stephanie, his nose wrinkling in disbelief and confusion. “I’m not actually that- “

“Pneumonia is serious!” Stephanie said, putting her hands on her hips. “My mom said so. Even if you feel better, you should still make sure you rest properly. I don’t care how awful you are, it’s just sensible.”

Íþróttaálfurinn had never seen Glanni quite this flabbergasted. The other man opened and closed his mouth, and then finally turned to look at Íþróttaálfurinn helplessly. He shrugged. A small, incredulous smile was tugging the corners of his lips.

“I brought soup,” Stephanie continued her announcements, not caring that she was confusing the adults in the room. “And some oranges. And- “ she rummaged her bag, before pulling something out triumphantly. “Playing cards! Every time I get sick one of my parents or my uncle comes to play cards with me.”

“You want me to – play cards,” Glanni said weakly.

“Do you know how to play Go Fish?” Stephanie asked brightly, although – now that Íþróttaálfurinn looked closer – there was a steely, challenging glint in her eyes when she looked at Glanni. It – surprised him, and then he wondered if he should’ve been that surprised. Maybe he hadn’t been looking close enough, before.

Glanni, in his turn, glanced at Íþróttaálfurinn before visibly shifting his stance, somehow finding his drawl as he considered her. “Do you know how to play poker?”

“No,” Stephanie said earnestly. “Are you going to teach me?”

“Oh,” Glanni sighed, putting a hand on his chest, as if admitting he was shouldering an awful burden. “I guess so.”

“Any money you win off her you give back,” Íþróttaálfurinn said quickly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or I’ll hang you by your ankles and shake you until it falls out.”

“Ibuprofen,” Glanni said, his mouth finally curling in a crooked grin, as if scandalized. “Not in front of the child.”

Stephanie let out a laugh. “Ibuprofen! That’s funny - can I call you that too, Sportacus?”

“Why not,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, resigned and entertained at the same, as well as indescribably, impossibly relieved.

“Come on then,” Stephanie said bossily, turning to make her way to the sitting room. “You’re going to sit and rest, and teach me poker. And later you’re going to have sweet potato soup.”

“That’s – nice,” Glanni said, his teeth bared between his perfectly lined lips, turning to look at Íþróttaálfurinn as he followed her, mouthing at him silently what Íþróttaálfurinn could assess were just obscenities. He supposed he was getting them all out now.

Íþróttaálfurinn just smiled, and shrugged at him again.

Stephanie let out a surprised sound in the other room. “Why is there a flamingo under the couch?”

“Oh, that’s Angelina,” Glanni said, following her. “Don’t mind her, she likes to watch.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stood still for a moment, listening to their voices, just like yesterday. The snow from Stephanie’s boots still lingered on the floor, slowly melting in the warm of the morning sun. He heard Stephanie giggle, abruptly, followed by a reluctant low guffaw from Glanni.

He made a sudden decision, walking over to the doorway and leaning in.

“Stephanie?” he said. She looked up where she was sitting. Glanni was expertly shuffling the cards. A judgemental plastic bird peered at him from under the couch.

“Yes?” she said.

“Would you- “ Íþróttaálfurinn said, smiling hesitantly. “Would you like an apple?”

She beamed at him. “Of course!”

Íþróttaálfurinn smiled wider. “I’ll be right back.”

He made his way to the kitchen to the sound of Stephanie telling Glanni not to hide cards in his sleeves.

*

Yellow and dark blue melded together. The street lights outside bothered him, even with his eyes closed. Íþróttaálfurinn wished he’d picked a room with curtains.

He sighed and turned in his bed, shuffling onto his side. He was surrounded by chairs, stacked on top of each other – some of the worn and broken, some of them brightly coloured and plasticky, some of them cushioned and expensive. He’d had to clear some off the bed to be able to use it. They towered around him, surrounding him ominously.

He didn’t know what time was, but it was late. His eyes were aching from exhaustion – but they refused to close, as he stared at the shadows shifting and blurring in the corners, as his magic crept from his fingertips to feel the shape of Glanni in the other room. There was an enormous mirror resting in one corner – Íþróttaálfurinn sat up, spying himself in the darkness, his eyes barely visible. He couldn’t read the emotion he saw in them.  

Finally, he got out of the bed, and crept across the corridor.

Glanni curled under his covers, surrounded by miscellaneous bits of trash he seemed to collect whenever he was still for more than five minutes, his eyes shut. He hadn’t bothered to wash off the eyeshadow, which was probably going to be smudged in the morning. Íþróttaálfurinn watched him in silence, unsure of himself.

“Stop staring at me,” Glanni said muffledly. “You creep.”

Íþróttaálfurinn started. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

One of Glanni’s eyes opened, and he rolled onto his back.

“I don’t often do what I’m supposed to be doing. Can’t believe this comes as news to you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn crept over to the bed slowly, and then sat down on it, looking at Glanni quietly.

After a moment, Glanni spoke again. “What is it?”

“How does it feel, not being hated by an innocent child?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, to say something.

“Like I’m going to steal her candy.” Glanni moved his hand as if to rub his eyes, but then seemed to remember the makeup. “She doesn’t – not hate me, you know. Good for her.”

“She’s not doing it because of me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. “That was all her. On her own.” He felt a brief flash of pride at that.

“Yeah, she sure is something,” Glanni sneered, half-heartedly. He closed his eyes again, and then murmured, exhaling heavily. “Why are you here, Ibuprofen?”

Íþróttaálfurinn fell silent, his gaze wandering in the dark room – rendered somehow different than it was during the day, silent and otherworldly. It felt like he was in some different place altogether – some strange bubble, just him and Glanni, and all that were left were words.

“Glanni,” he said, after a moment, softly, staring at the flamingos. “Are we – friends?”

There was silence, followed by the shuffle of sheets. He turned to look.

Glanni was lying on his back, his eyes open, fixed on the ceiling – his face scrunched up, wrinkling his nose.

“I don’t really – do friends,” he said, after a moment. Evasive.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Glanni turned to look at him – his expression slowly smoothing out, leaving sort of dismayed confusion.

“I guess- “ Glanni said huskily, slowly, keeping his eyes on Íþróttaálfurinn. “We’re – friendly?”

He looked like he was hoping for Íþróttaálfurinn to connect the dots.

He did. He let out a deep, shaky exhale – and then stretched out, on the awfully inviting warm bed next to Glanni.

“Good,” he murmured. “It was starting to get weird thinking of you as an enemy and buying you makeup. Sets a bad precedent.”

“Hey,” Glanni said, pulling back a little, indignantly. “Are you confused? This is my bed.”

“Technically, mine,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, stifling a yawn. Glanni rolled onto his side, and Íþróttaálfurinn felt him prodding his chest, in the darkness.

“My sickbed. Wait – are you falling asleep? Don’t you dare to fall asleep, Ibuprofen- “

“Friends can share,” Íþróttaálfurinn murmured, grasping the wrist of the offending hand gently. Glanni let out a sound that could only be described as an offended squawk, shuffling furiously under his covers.

Íþróttaálfurinn waited it out – all of a sudden he was heavy, relaxed, the sheets warm from Glanni’s body. They smelled like him – too sweet for Íþróttaálfurinn, with a strange hint of smoke. The room felt less empty, with two people in it instead of just one.

After a moment Glanni huffed.

“I could murder you in your sleep, you know.”

“Try the eyelash curler,” Íþróttaálfurinn mumbled. “That thing seems pretty fatal.”

There was another, different kind of huff. Then Íþróttaálfurinn felt something touch his head – he tensed up for a moment, as Glanni pulled his cap off, but there was a soft jingle next to his ear, where he placed it.

He opened his eyes just a fraction. Glanni was lying on his side, his eyes open, his mascara a mess – watching Íþróttaálfurinn unreadably, his mouth curled in a way that was either unhappy, or focused. Íþróttaálfurinn wanted to reach out to him then – to touch the corners of that mouth, smudge that lipstick – but his eyes pressed shut again heavily.

Without thinking about it too hard, he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Something was tickling his face.

Normally Íþróttaálfurinn went from sleeping to being awake in a matter of seconds – it’d been trained into him as a child and he’d continued obeying the schedule by himself, since it suited his needs. Get out of bed, do your exercises, have breakfast and start your day. No procrastination, no hesitation. Certainly no lounging about until late afternoon.

Only now – now Íþróttaálfurinn was warm, warmer than usual with the heat of another body pressed against his. It was all he could think about, the warmth and the heavy scent of sleep lingering in his nostrils. When the clock ticked to 8:08, his brain – simply repelled the idea of moving. Burrowed under a blanket, his arm around something soft and simultaneously bony, he wrinkled his nose and pressed his face against the pillow.

At 8:30 he opened his eyes, reluctantly. There was the occasional slacking off and then there was madness. 

He became gradually aware of their positions – Glanni with his back turned to Íþróttaálfurinn, the back of his head brushing his face, Íþróttaálfurinn’s arm around his chest. Glanni’s legs were pushed out forward, as if he’d tried to wriggle away but hadn’t quite managed the task. Íþróttaálfurinn felt an embarrassed jolt when he realized he’d been cuddling the other man like some unwieldy teddy bear.

There was a sound: like a mildly asthmatic cat purring. Íþróttaálfurinn lifted his head, blinking dazedly at the world in general, and then inched forward.

Glanni was snoring very softly. 

Íþróttaálfurinn huffed out a soft laugh, and without thinking, squeezed him lightly. The snoring stopped immediately. There was a pause.

“Sorry,” Íþróttaálfurinn whispered.

“Oh, it’s you,” Glanni exhaled heavily.

Íþróttaálfurinn tried not to feel insulted. “Who did you think it was?”

“Oh, you know. You wake up with a total stranger, who leans in and asks if he can have your molars once, and you’re never the same.”

“I wouldn’t take your molars,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, relaxing back against the bed, thoughtful and languid. “I might check you for cavities.”

“You know, the list of men who’ve had their hand in my mouth is very short.”

“Mostly dentists, I hope,” Íþróttaálfurinn said solemnly, trying to ignore any stirrings down south. It was just a reaction. 

He could hear Glanni smirking.

“Oh, come on,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. “That’s not bragging. You’re not bragging when you say that. I’m horrified.” Glanni let out a short chortle, and then fell silent. They laid there for a while, comfortably, before the other man stirred.

“Listen,” he said, in a different tone, and then shuffled, nudging Íþróttaálfurinn’s arm until he could turn around to face him. “Should we- “

Íþróttaálfurinn recoiled. “Ah! A monster!”

Glanni rolled his eyes, which were heavily smeared with mascara, creating a rather interesting effect of a highly fashionable zombie. His expression visibly shifted from pensive to annoyed, as he shuffled into a prim sitting position.

“Oh, haha, hilarious. Listen – about last night. Should we – uh, talk about it?”

Íþróttaálfurinn hesitated, a hint of uncertainty. “Talk about what, exactly?”

“The- “ Glanni gestured vaguely, “friendship – oh, I can’t even finish that sentence, I feel like I’m in kindergarten- “ 

“Is that when you last had friends?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, mildly horrified. Glanni looked like Íþróttaálfurinn was doing this on purpose and might soon be kicked off the bed.

“What I’m trying to say,” the other man started, slowly, grimacing down at him, “is – what do you expect me to do? Because – I’m not going to change just because we’re – friendly. I definitely won’t do any bouncing around or singing with your little brats, or eat those vegetables that look like tiny trees – or play any more cards with them. Pinky’s got a hell of a poker face.“

“Well,” Íþróttaálfurinn said uncertainly. “First of all, are you talking about broccoli?” 

“Ibuprofen.”

“Look,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, shuffling up too, reluctantly. “I know – how you are by now. I don’t want you to do anything.”

Glanni leaned back, squinting at him suspiciously, wrinkling his nose.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all,” Íþróttaálfurinn said empathetically. “I mean, don’t call the children brats, and maybe never mention that you don’t know what broccoli is, because it makes me want to hit you, but – I don’t need you to change.”

Glanni seemed to have trouble processing this information. He was quiet for a moment, staring somewhere to the left of Íþróttaálfurinn, his lips pursing as he mulled it over, his brows furrowed. He looked like a confused raccoon. It was actually sort of endearing.

“All right then,” Glanni said eventually. He repeated, a little uncertainly. “Nothing.” 

They looked at each other in the sparse distance of the bed. There were crease marks from the pillow on Glanni’s cheek, and one side of his lipstick was smudged, as if he’d rubbed it against the sheets, or possibly even drooled a little. Íþróttaálfurinn thought – that it’d be the easiest thing, to reach out and touch his hand, cover it with his.

He didn’t.

“Well then,” Glanni said huskily, after a moment. He looked around as is searching for something else. “I think,” he continued, calculating, “I’m going to take a shower.”

“That sounds good,” Íþróttaálfurinn said cautiously.

Glanni flashed a grin at him, and then abruptly shuffled to face away, peeking at Íþróttaálfurinn over his shoulder coyly.

“Unzip me, will you?” he drawled, and then added, sweetly: “Friend.”

Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath, dragging the blankets onto his lap before reaching for the zipper.

Nothing some hearty exercise wouldn’t solve.

*

“Congratulations,” the doctor said, cheerily. “It’s not pneumonia! Anymore.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stomped his feet in the cramped bedroom, trying to discreetly pick snow out of his hat. Glanni sat on the bed, his legs crossed, looking a little miffed about the thermometer in his mouth.

Íþróttaálfurinn had spent most of the day outside, which had come as a great relief after several days of not being able to let go and simply play – he’d gone sledding with the children, as promised. By the time he’d gotten back, red-faced and breathless, the good doctor from Mayhemtown was already finishing her examination. By the looks of it, he’d interrupted Glanni as well – there was open bottle of nailpolish on one of the ottomans, and Glanni was shoeless and sockless.

“It’s good of you to come and check on him,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, “but why are you taking his temperature if he’s no longer sick?”

“Oh, he was being mouthy,” the doctor said airily, putting her stethoscope away. “I needed to shut him up for a while.”

Glanni let out an indignant sound, the thermometer dropping on his lap. Íþróttaálfurinn hurried to speak before he did.

“Thank you, doctor. Really. You’ve been a great help- “ he aimed a pointed look at Glanni who pulled a face at him. “Would you like anything? Some tea? An apple for the road?”

“Ah, no,” she said delicately, standing. “You wouldn’t happen to have any malt whiskey, would you?”

“No hard liquors whatsoever,” Glanni muttered darkly before Íþróttaálfurinn could answer. “I checked.”

“Oh, cheer up,” the doctor said. “I gave you a clean bill of health, so you’re free to go ruin it. But if I’m not getting a drink, I might get a move on.” She gave Íþróttaálfurinn a crooked smile. “Walk me to the door, Sportacus?”

Íþróttaálfurinn blinked, a little startled and dismayed when he found his arm hooked with hers, mostly because it meant walking a sedate pace down the stairs.

He felt like there was something about to happen.

“What exactly did Glanni say to you while I was away?” he asked carefully, as they took the final steps down the stairs.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality, I’m afraid,” she said mysteriously, letting go of his arm. She smiled for a moment in a way that made him truly embarrassed, before she continued. “I take it you don’t often harbour wanted criminals, Sportacus? At least I hope so.”

Íþróttaálfurinn went cold.

“He’s- “ he started, stuttering a bit – he wanted to fix this with a neat little dose of magic, he wanted his voice to change and wrap around her mind, turn her gaze away, but for some reason he found that couldn’t – not that he wasn’t capable of it, but that he couldn’t, because all he could think all of were Stephanie’s teary eyes and Glanni’s flat, unimpressed look.

“Glanni Glæpur,” she said patiently. “He’s quite famous in Mayhemtown, you know. I once treated him for a broken nose after he got arrested – not that he seems to remember. Celebrities, am I right?”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s throat was absolutely dry. He stared down at her.

“So you knew,” he said hoarsely. “I mean, the first time around, when I- “

“Of course I knew,” she said mildly. She looked at him – woman in her fifties, with her soft, neat brown hair and golden-tinted glasses, and then reached out, patting his bicep gently. “Breathe.”

Íþróttaálfurinn did, deeply, as if he’d forgotten to. “But wait- “ he said. “Are you going to, uh- “

“Well, technically I would’ve if I was,” she said, rubbing her neck and grimacing. “Whoops? What can I say? He’s a – listen, I understand things are different here in Lazytown, but he was a regular figure in our community for a while there.”

“A regular- ?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked incredulously. “But- “

“We’ve got a different attitude about this sort of thing back in Mayhem.” She winked at him. “He’s got personality. He’s fun to read about, in the papers. Never a dull moment with that boy, and all that.”

Íþróttaálfurinn opened his mouth to protest, because talking like that about a criminal was ridiculous, and Mayhemtowners needed to seriously re-evaluate what they found entertaining – and then he closed it.

It might have come out as a tad hypocritical considering he’d slept in the same bed with Glanni just the night before.

“He’s probably coming back soon,” he said instead, colourlessly. “I mean, we have a deal. So you’ve got that to look forward to, doctor.”

“I was hoping to hear that,” her mouth curled again, and she opened the front door with a soft click. “Really, don’t worry, Sportacus. You did a good deed here. And soon you’ll be rid of him.”

“I know,” said Íþróttaálfurinn, who couldn’t quite bring himself to smile – and closed the door after her, standing in silence in the empty hallway.

Then he went back upstairs.

*

“Well, I’m healthy,” Glanni drawled, carefully applying the second coat of paint on his toenails. “Hooray for me. Does this mean we can finally proceed with the plan? All I need to do is help you catch the guys – should be a piece of cake, considering how many times I’ve been caught.” He paused, and then added hastily. “I mean, considering I’m a higher class criminal than the rest of these bozos. Is what I mean.”

“I’ll go out tonight,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. “Even if no one calls for my help. Check out the sewers. We’ll get them soon.”

He felt strangely distant, leaning against the wall and watching Glanni stick his tongue out in concentration. He never leaned. It was like he was somewhere else, and Glanni was – already far away.

Glanni gave him a look from the corner of his eye, and then said, rather derisively: “You know, I’ll be glad to see the back of this place – I mean, look at this room! Some of this furniture gives me a headache if I look at it too long.” He glanced at Íþróttaálfurinn again, as if expecting him to agree. “I guess you’ll be happy too, when you get to – fly around and yell people about nutrition, or whatever it was you were doing before.”

“About exercise too,” Íþróttaálfurinn said absently, glancing around the room. “I didn’t really decorate it, you know – people just put their things in here. I haven’t really thought about it before.”

“I shudder to think what would happen if you did. I’ve seen you try sitting, I don’t think you know how chairs work.”

“Would you like to?” Íþróttaálfurinn said abruptly, turning to Glanni, the words just tumbling out of his mouth on their own. “I mean, think about it? At least for your room – I mean, since you’ll be – staying a while longer. I wouldn’t mind.”

Glanni blinked at him, his nose wrinkling in a way which indicated surprise, baring his teeth briefly. He put away his nail-polish slowly, brows furrowed warily.

“Well – I mean – I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” he said gradually. Íþróttaálfurinn nodded along. “I mean, I could at least take a look at what you have around here. Pick myself something nicer.” He paused, and then brightened. “You know, I’ve always thought I’d make a good interior designer. I’ve robbed a lot of awfully decorated houses.”

“There’s a lot more in the attic,” Íþróttaálfurinn said easily, warming up to his own idea, his chest starting to feel lighter. “Furniture, fabrics, pillows - I could carry it all down for you before nightfall. Before I go out. It’d be great exercise, actually.”

“Don’t ruin this, Ibuprofen, I already said yes.” Despite that, Glanni grinned up at him, as he climbed off the bed. Then he paused, as if thinking of something, and looked at the lamp on the nightstand – before reaching out and triumphantly pushing it onto the floor with a sound of shattering glass.

Íþróttaálfurinn jumped. Glanni hopped up and down a little, gleefully.

“We’re not breaking anything!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped. The other man gave him a wide-eyed look.

“My hand slipped?”

“I was watching you, genius. We’re not breaking anything. Is that clear?”

“Fine,” Glanni sniffed. “I guess there’s always the option of selling some of this garbage.” He brightened abruptly. “Ooh, I quite like that idea, actually.”

Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes, entertained, reaching out and grabbing Glanni’s wrist. “Come on. If you manage to sell any of this without leaving the house or revealing yourself, I’ll let you keep the money.”

“Oh,” Glanni said, nearly purring as he stepped over the shards of glass, daintily. “I’ll hold you to that, Ibuprofen.”

Íþróttaálfurinn knew then, that he probably should’ve been less curious and a lot more worried.

Damn that Mayhemtowner for rubbing off on him.

*

The attic was a vast space filled with all sorts of boxes and furniture piled on top of each other: broken toys lying around sadly, stacks of newspaper forming their own colony in one corner, several ominous mannequins lurking somewhere in the distance. Pale light illuminated it through dirty windows, and the floor was soft and covered entirely in newspapers. Dust particles danced through air, sent flying when Íþróttaálfurinn and Glanni climbed up.

“I don’t know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said uncertainly looking around as they stopped to examine the chaos. “Most of this is junk, right? Maybe this wasn’t such a- ”

“Is that a feather boa?” Glanni interrupted, an unholy gleam appearing in his eyes. “Ha! Velvet curtains! I’ve always wanted velvet curtains!”

“You can have them!” Íþróttaálfurinn said hastily, because Glanni was now determinedly trying to climb over a precarious stack of folded lawn chairs. He looked around. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there, except maybe making sure Glanni didn’t die in an avalanche of half-finished crossword puzzles. The sea of material goods was a little agitating: it was tough to move around when you weren’t sure what you were going to land on.

He looked up. It was an old house – there were numerous heavy wooden ceiling beams going across the room.

He took a deep breath, rolling on the balls of his feet a couple of times, before he leapt out, grabbing one of the beams and swinging himself onto it. Íþróttaálfurinn grinned, inching along it carefully.

“Are you doing something weird?” Glanni, the biggest hypocrite in the world, was wrapped in a deep red velvet curtain like some unwashed monarch. “Oh good, you found something to amuse yourself with.”

“Don’t make me drop down on you,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, grinning wider, before he took a flying leap to the next beam, swinging from it in a loop, before doing a backwards landing on it. His muscles were singing, blood pumping in his ears, and he felt strangely gleeful. He could hear Glanni snorting, which meant he was watching.

“There’s a chandelier here!” Glanni called out. “I’m keeping it, if you promise not to swing from it, Sporta…show-off. Wait, Sportabrag.”

“No deal!” Íþróttaálfurinn called back. Glanni had to be a little impressed, despite his derision. Most people were, that was just the truth. It wasn’t like Íþróttaálfurinn cared for one way or another – but still. A little impressed.

He glanced ahead at the beam a little further away, and then had a great idea – he’d make his way along the rafters, and indeed drop down, just behind Glanni. Maybe he could elicit one of those shrieks out of him. The idea pleased him, for some reason.

Íþróttaálfurinn flexed his fingers, and then took a flying leap to the next beam – which would’ve been successful if his foot hadn’t caught on the canopy of the bed that sat in the middle of the attic. As it was, Íþróttaálfurinn landed face-first on dusty fabric, and there was a loud, unpleasant tearing sound before he went through, twisting in the air at the last minute so as to bounce harmlessly onto his back on the mattress, cloud of dust flying everywhere.

Glanni’s voice called out, somewhere close. “What happened? Ibuprofen! Íþróttaálfurinn?”

“I’m f- “ Íþróttaálfurinn started and then descended into coughing, waving dust away from his face. He could hear Glanni coming closer, and then the other man pushed aside some clothing racks, coming through, his expression shifting from wide-eyed alarm to a sneer so fast it nearly gave Íþróttaálfurinn whiplash.

Glanni, at this point, was wearing an oversized fur coat, curtains draped over his shoulder, a top hat with a feather on it sitting on his head in a coquettish angle, dragging a bejewelled mirror in his wake. He looked like some kind of an ultra-fashionable tooth fairy.

“Look at you!” Glanni said. “You broke the bed! Happy now, you bouncing moron?”

“I’m fine,” Íþróttaálfurinn croaked, sitting up properly.

“I don’t care,” Glanni announced, stepping over a pile of books to get to the bed. Something shattered under his shoe. He looked down and made a face.

“I just stepped on a photo frame – are these your pictures?”

“I don’t have any,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. “Also, can I point out that you broke a lamp just moments ago? On purpose?”

“I don’t recall,” Glanni said like a seasoned court-goer, and bent down: there was the soft sound of shards of glass being shifted around, before he pulled out a frayed, yellow photograph, examining it, lips pursed.

“Who is it?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, after a moment.

“No idea,” Glanni said carelessly, flicking the picture to Íþróttaálfurinn, before he put his mirror down and flopped down onto the bed, sending a storm of dust flying around. Both of them spent a solid minute coughing furiously.

Íþróttaálfurinn waved a hand over his face, picking up the photo. Two people – a man and a woman, by the looks of it, sat with their arms around each other. Her dress was old – Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t remember the time humans had last dressed like that, and her wide, angular face was tilted towards the man, some small, strange smile lingering on her lips as if she’d been laughing moments before. He looked into the camera – serious, or at least trying to be, something proud and joyful in the way he held his arm over her shoulder.

“It’s old,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, distantly. “No one probably misses it anymore.”

Glanni dragged his hat over his eyes lazily. “I look amazing in photographs. It’s a shame most of them eventually turn out to be incriminating.”

“I like that about humans,” Íþróttaálfurinn said absently, reaching out, tugging the hat away from Glanni’s face. “I mean – elves don’t take pictures. It’s not – it’s just how we are. We remember, but we drift in and out of each other’s lives – we don’t try to- “ he struggled. “We don’t try to keep anything – solid. Tangible. Like family photos – or families, for that matter. Things that stick for your whole life.”

Glanni flicked his eyes up at Íþróttaálfurinn, his lips pursed. “So who did you have, when you were growing up?”

“Various people,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, rubbing his thumb against the silky surface of the picture. He leaned back, placing his hands on the mattress, lifting himself up lightly, legs crossed, as he meditated the hole on the roof of the canopy. “Older elves, who fed me, clothed me, guided me – I had a mother and father, obviously, and they must have – been there too.”

“Huh,” Glanni said, surprisingly tactfully.

“What about you?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, looking down at him, swaying back and forth gently. “What was your family like? Or – is, I hope.”

Glanni barked out a sudden laugh. “Oh – I haven’t seen them in years! They all think I’m dead.”

“What?” Íþróttaálfurinn paused, staring down at Glanni.

Glanni drawled, clearly amused by Íþróttaálfurinn’s reaction. “Well, I faked my own death after I was supposed to chip in on my Great-Aunt Hilde’s birthday present. You know how it goes. I haven’t talked to any of them for – oh, seven years now.”

“That’s horrifying,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, looking down at the photo in his hand.

“Ha! I couldn’t wait to get out of there.” Glanni’s face twisted into a grimace as he stared somewhere ahead. “My sister too – she took off first, and I followed a few years later. I knew exactly what I wanted.”

“To be – a petty criminal?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked slowly.

“Money!” Glanni barked, glaring up at Íþróttaálfurinn. “Lots of money – and fame too. I wanted people to know who I am. And now they do- “ he paused to preen a little. “For the most part.”

“For the most part,” Íþróttaálfurinn agreed, softly, gazing down at Glanni’s upside down face. “And do you ever get- “

“If you’re going to ask me if I ever get lonely like I’m one of your lost boys,” Glanni said, sneering at him. “I’m going to break something else.”

“…Bored,” Íþróttaálfurinn finished lamely. “Do you ever get bored, just – doing the same thing, by yourself?”

Glanni looked like Íþróttaálfurinn was skirting the edges of getting something thrown at him – but he relented, sniffing. “I guess. I mean, mostly it’s about survival.” He paused. “For example, I simply can’t survive without Louboutins and Belgian truffles.”

“It’s a hard-knock life,” Íþróttaálfurinn agreed solemnly. Glanni flashed a grin at him, like he did when Íþróttaálfurinn actually said something that amused him, and Íþróttaálfurinn felt his heart perform a tiny startled backflip, his breath catching in his throat. He leaned back hastily, blinking at the world in general as he gathered his thoughts.

When he turned to look again, Glanni was holding his mirror and pouting at his reflection.

“Hey,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. Glanni just about managed to wrench his gaze away. “Do you want to,” Íþróttaálfurinn continued slowly, “see if I can hang from the rafters and catch whatever you throw at me?”

“Oh, I see,” Glanni squinted. “When it’s your thing, we get to break stuff.”

“Or – you could just not throw anything breakable at me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said.

“Or we could just not play.”

“Fine,” Íþróttaálfurinn relented, too eager to really care. He sprung onto his feet, and Glanni followed, shedding his fur onto the bed. “Just don’t throw anything you might want to keep.”

“Oh, trust me, Ibuprofen. If there’s one thing I know, it’s holding onto what’s mine.”

*

Íþróttaálfurinn felt his boots sink into something slightly slimy and soft under the shallow layer of water. Judging from the overpowering stench in the air, he figured he didn’t want to know what it was.

It’d been easy enough to pull off the manhole cover and climb down. It’d proved much less easier to figure out how to navigate down in the sewers – much less find anyone in there. Rats scattered at the sight of him, his crystal stayed quiet, and on top of everything else, he couldn’t even do any flips or somersaults to ease his tension. He wasn’t putting his hands down, whatever it took.

He paused, once again, taking a breath through his mouth as he listened. It was pitch-dark, but it didn’t bother Íþróttaálfurinn – he could see, catching the faintest of movement as a small rodent scuttled away, and most importantly, he could hear – the distant drip of water, the muffled hum of the town above, and somewhere, somewhere far but close enough to hear – footsteps.

He started walking again. The solitude of stone rising above him, covering him from every angle was starting to get to him – he wasn’t exactly agitated, but he felt too sharp, moving constantly towards the endless darkness with the splash of his feet echoing too loud in his ears. He was breathing as slow and measured as he could.

He wondered if it would really be that bad not to find those guys tonight. It wasn’t like Glanni was in a hurry. They could try this again, another day.

Someone, somewhere, screamed.

Íþróttaálfurinn was running before the last echoes died out. His shoulder slammed into a slimy wall and he barrelled around the corner, his feet barely touching the ground – and there, there, a ray of pale light from above, an open hole to the skies.

Íþróttaálfurinn leapt, and didn’t even feel the iron on the ladder as he climbed up to the real world, of snow and quiet houses and gentler darkness, panting under his breath as he looked around wildly, the street dark and empty - except for one. 

There was a figure on a heap of snow by an alleyway, dark coat and hunched in on themselves, and Íþróttaálfurinn barely recognized her – girl at the local grocery store’s cash register – before he was crouching over her.

For a brief second she looked dead, dark hair and pale skin and clumpy youthful mascara, and then she turned her head, her lashes fluttering – and all Íþróttaálfurinn could see was the bright red blood splattered on the white snow. There was a sound of door opening somewhere.

“Hey, is she okay?”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned his head jerkily – trying to find words in the right language, finally croaking out. “She needs help – she has a head wound, I think. Someone needs to take her inside, stop the bleeding, call a doctor- “

The snow crunched under several pairs of feet as more people approached. The first speaker said something. Lights appeared in windows. Someone was talking to her, and she answered, her voice weak and distant.

Íþróttaálfurinn stared at the blood, surrounding her head like a halo.

*

He was back in the sewers. He didn’t remember getting down there – he didn’t remember anything except the cold air on his face, people calling after him, the pounding blood in his ears. He listened, turning in a slow predatory circle in the stinking darkness, for any sign of life, any rustle or sound to indicate where he should go – but it was gone. They were gone.  

“Cowards!” he yelled, his voice echoing on the stones. “Miserable cretins! Come and face me!”

Only silence answered him.

He stood for a moment, panting, his fingers curling – he wanted to run, and keep running, but already he was lost – dark tunnels stretching in every direction, all across the city. Íþróttaálfurinn took off his cap, rubbing it across his face, swearing under his breath. He was effectively useless.

Only the rats watched, as he started climbing back up to the street. 

*

He left his shoes by the door. They’d need a good scrubbing.

Breathing out heavily, Íþróttaálfurinn headed upstairs like a homing pigeon. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint the mood he was in, his mind sitting cold and heavy in his head, but he knew he needed to talk to Glanni, he needed – to feel as light and carefree as he’d felt only mere hours ago. He needed something. 

Glanni had brought down the mirror, and some other items – he’d hogged nearly all of the mannequins for what he claimed were for his ‘outfits’, lined up in a row near the window. His furcoat was draped over a horrendously pink chair, while the last remaining ottoman had the dubious honor of supporting the mirror, all of his makeup gathered around it in a pile. There were too many pillows on the bed to properly see it anymore. One of the flamingos was wearing the top hat. Íþróttaálfurinn sort of hated that he knew this one was called Helga.

At that moment, Glanni was sitting cross-legged on the bed, sewing something made of very sheer, black material. Íþróttaálfurinn stopped by the doorway, staring at him, before he forced himself to walk inside.

“I didn’t know you could sew,” he said hoarsely.

“I can do the occasional stitch,” Glanni drawled, after taking the needles out of his mouth. “Sometimes there’s a ripped seam in your disguise and you have to mend it in a hurry while crouching on a toilet seat in the men’s bathroom. Comes in handy.”

“I don’t suppose you could mend some of my socks for me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, absent-minded and restless, walking across the room. It was still dark outside – the sun wouldn’t rise for hours yet.

In the corner of his eye, Glanni smirked.

“You couldn’t afford me.”

Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t say anything – he meant to, but he found himself staring outside, as if willing for tonight’s culprits to magically appear, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“Ibuprofen?”

“Stop – calling me that!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped irritably, whirling around to face Glanni. “It’s not my name!”

Glanni blinked, and then sneered at Íþróttaálfurinn, unfolding his legs slowly as he stood up. “What’s the matter, your cap screwed on too tight? I’ll call you what I want to call you.”

“It’s- “ Íþróttaálfurinn stopped, rubbing a hand over his face, taking a deep breath, and then another. It wasn’t Glanni he was angry at – which was a miracle in itself.

“Tonight didn’t go well,” he said, lowly, eventually. “I didn’t mean to snap, it was just – someone was hurt. I don’t like seeing people hurt on my watch. And – I have no idea how to find them in the sewers. They know them better than I do.” He turned, pacing, gesturing desperately. “Above ground, it’d be a whole other matter entirely, since I can – jump, and climb, and they’ll never see me coming, but down there- “

“That’s all?”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned to Glanni, anger flaring in his chest. “What do you mean, that’s all? It was plenty!”

“Look,” Glanni took a step back, lifting his hands in surrender. “You had a bad night! It happens to everyone!”

“Not to me! Not to Sportacus!” Íþróttaálfurinn felt ridiculous, ridiculous and childish at the nearly plaintive tone creeping in at the end of his sentence, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d utterly failed to protect someone tonight.

“Okay, big-shot – what I’m saying is – if you can’t find these guys, all’s not lost yet! You’ve got a trump card right here!”

Íþróttaálfurinn paused, staring at Glanni, who’d started grinning at him. “What?”

“It’s me. Obviously! Look, the doc cleared me, I’m good to go- “

Íþróttaálfurinn’s heart started beating so loud it almost drowned out Glanni’s voice as he continued talking.

“-just send me down there, I’ll find them, talk to them. Lead them to a location we decide beforehand – and you can nab ‘em while I have a drink and watch. It’ll be fun not to be the one getting the snot beaten out of them.” 

Íþróttaálfurinn stared at Glanni, bathed in the golden, warm light of the lamps he’d picked out for himself and felt cold. Uninvited, his mind flashed to the red on white, the ugly pattern of blood on the snow, the dark hair caked with blood and he felt nausea rising up his throat, something dark and horrible coiling in his chest, squeezing his heart. And he realized he was terrified – because if Glanni went out there and never came back, Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t sure if he could move on: if in some way he wouldn’t be as stuck as that frozen moment in the old photo.

He opened his mouth. He panicked.

“I can’t let you do that.”

Glanni looked taken aback, squinting at him. “Why not?”

“Because,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, desperately searching, “because – I mean, how can I trust you to do that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, his voice breaking, throwing all caution in the wind as he squared his shoulders. “How can I trust you not to just – run away, the moment I – or even worse, join forces with those crooks out there? It’s not like you make it a secret you’re going to go back to your old tricks as soon as our time together is finished.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“Why not?” Íþróttaálfurinn demanded.

“Because- “ Glanni ran his fingers through his short hair, staring at Íþróttaálfurinn, eyes wide, his teeth bared in confusion. “Because- “ Glanni gestured, exasperated. “You think I’d incur your wrath by backstabbing you now?”

“Well,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, feeling sick and cold, baring his teeth. Something nasty was building inside him: he could hear the crunch of the snow in his ears. “You’re not always as bright as you claim to be. And you underestimate me constantly.”

“Weren’t we supposed to be friends?” Glanni snapped. “Correct me if I’m wrong, I feel like we had that conversation. What happened to that, huh? And don’t you think I would’ve double-crossed by you by now, if I was- “

Cold white skin, and she hadn’t been dead, but she could’ve been.

“So what? You still might,” Íþróttaálfurinn asked hoarsely. He was closer now, close enough to watch the myriad of expressions pass through Glanni's face. 

“So what? Just because you’re- “

Blood on the snow. The room, closed again, curtains and mirrors and flamingos gathering dust.

“- self-righteous, paranoid- “

“The deal’s off,” Íþróttaálfurinn interrupted abruptly, blurting it out without thinking. Glanni’s mouth closed, and he stared at Íþróttaálfurinn. "The deal is off," Íþróttaálfurinn repeated, hoarsely. "It's off. You're going back to prison." 

He felt like he was shaking inwardly, staring, as Glanni’s face shifted from wide-eyed surprise, slowly contorting, twisting in a sudden rage.

“You-“ Glanni growled, “backstabbing, lying cow, you – “

“You can yell at me all you want,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, his voice rising. “This is- “

“I hope you break every bone in your body!” Glanni snarled. “I hope you do one backflip too many and snap your neck! I hope this stupid town goes up in flames!”

Íþróttaálfurinn clenched his teeth together, inching towards the door. “Glanni-“

“It’s Glæpur to you! And if I see your face again- “ Glanni grabbed a mug, swinging it at Íþróttaálfurinn. He ducked, and it shattered on the doorframe. “I’m going to cut your pointy little ears off! The hell with you! I never liked you, or those shitty little brats! Never!”

Íþróttaálfurinn flinched, his fingers curling tight on the wooden frame. “Don’t,” he started, a half-snarl. “Don’t say that-“

Glanni grabbed an ashtray next, his teeth bared. Íþróttaálfurinn slammed the door shut, jerking back when something shattered against it on the other side, Glanni’s voice descending into muffled swearing.

Íþróttaálfurinn looked around, and then grabbed a chair ejected from the room, wedging it under the door handle.

He had no idea what he was doing, his breathing too shallow and fast, and his crystal – his crystal going off, jingling loudly in the dark corridor.

“I know,” he mumbled hoarsely. “I know, I know.”

He looked around, as if expecting answers from the furniture. Something else crashed in the other room.

He fled.

*

The sun was rising sluggishly behind the blinds in the mayor’s office.

Íþróttaálfurinn paced on the plush dark red carpet, trying not to think about the state of his boots, his gaze flickering constantly back on the sun as he counted the minutes in his head. The dull ache behind his eyes told him, in no uncertain terms, that he’d failed to sleep through the night. He wanted to be outside – he wanted to be running until he forgot about the screaming criminal in his house and the mess he’d created for himself, until the gnawing guilt in his gut had dissipated. But here he was – his plan had failed.

After a moment, he proceeded to water all the plants in the office, just to do something, and coax few of them back to life gently.

There was a rattle outside the door. After a few seconds, mayor Meanswell flung it open, blinking at him owlishly.

“Sportacus!” the mayor exclaimed, nearly dropping his keys in his bemusement, fumbling with them. “I was just about to call for you!”

“You were?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked lowly, trying and failing to summon a smile.

“Yes – you see, I have just discovered something awful!” There was a pause. “Glanni Glæpur has escaped!”

Íþróttaálfurinn counted the days in his head.

“You’ve just discovered this,” he finally said, colourlessly.

He was trying not to be judgemental – he liked the mayor. He thought he was a good and a kind man. But somewhere, some treacherous part of Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t help but wonder to itself why it’d taken so long to notice that the only prisoner in Lazytown had gone missing.  

The mayor nodded along empathetically, tugging out a handkerchief from his pocket, patting his forehead delicately. “It’d the oddest thing – Office Obtuse has absolutely no idea how he might’ve gotten out. I guess that’s just master criminals for you, eh?”

Or meddling elves, Íþróttaálfurinn thought to himself, darkly. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He could come clean right there and then – he could tell Meanswell what’d happened, and Glanni would be right back where he started from. Wasn’t that why he was there? To stop the madness from going any further? To take responsibility?

“It sure is something,” he said, to say something, swallowing: the words sat there, right at the back of his throat, ready to come out, but Íþróttaálfurinn felt like he was choking on them.  

“Oh, he’s a slippery one, all right,” Meanswell continued darkly, circling around his desk. He pulled out a coffee cup. “I’ve read the reports they sent from Mayhemtown – can you believe they think some of those things the man pulled were funny?”

“Like what, exactly?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked carefully.

“Well, one time he posed as some kind of a salesman selling clothes to the wealthier citizens that he claimed were invisible- “

Íþróttaálfurinn felt himself begin to grin, and he schooled his features back in order hastily.

“- another time the whole town went crazy chasing some imaginary bird he promised a bounty on! While his cronies robbed houses! A complete chaos everywhere- “

“Must’ve been some good exercise,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, unable to help himself.

“One time he arranged a fake circus right in the middle of town! There was a dog painted to look like a lion! No one is still sure to what end, although the police suspects it was a jewellery heist gone wrong, since they found him in one of the shops drunk out of his mind-“

“Sounds about right,” Íþróttaálfurinn muttered. Meanswell glanced at him, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“Say – I didn’t ask, what were you doing in my office, Sportacus?”

Íþróttaálfurinn straightened hastily under the scrutiny, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It was now or never – face what he’d done, take the punishment doled out to him and repent. He could put this all behind him. He could end this. He stared at the mayor, eyes aching from exhaustion, feeling wild and unhinged in his head, somewhere in his brain the words fake circus rattling about, while, uninvited, he thought of Glanni in a circus director’s outfit.

Glanni had probably looked ridiculous with a fake moustache.

“I was hoping for some advice,” he rasped out. “On how to – how to apologize to someone.”

*

The horizon was so red it looked like it’d been stabbed, bleeding into the sky. Íþróttaálfurinn stepped back into the house, pausing and listening for signs of shouting or cursing.

There was a muffled thump, somewhere far above him. It didn’t sound like it came from Glanni’s room – rather, it sounded like someone was up in the attic. Íþróttaálfurinn felt himself cringe inwardly, as he braced himself.

The stairs creaked under Íþróttaálfurinn’s bare feet as he crept up, up, past the door Glanni had somehow managed to wedge open, despite the chair, and ever further up.

Glanni was dressed in his catsuit and his heels, an empty suitcase spread on the dirty floor by the stairs. He was bent over when Íþróttaálfurinn climbed up, grunting and muttering as he yanked a silver candlestick out of a pile of junk, tossing it into the suitcase carelessly.

“Glanni?” Íþróttaálfurinn said eventually, softly. The other man flinched sharply, whirling around, eyes wild and almost scared for a moment, staring at him.

“Oh!” Glanni said loudly, and then picked up a rusty sword. “It’s you! Hello, Sportashit!”

“What are you doing?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked carefully.

Glanni grinned like a knife, pointing the sword at him. “What’s it look like? I’m robbing you!”

Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t sure where Glanni had found the sword – from the depths of the attic, most likely, but he couldn’t feel even an ounce of real iron in it. He kept that to himself – lifting his hands, spreading his fingers placatingly, voice low. “I’m here to talk.”

Glanni barked out an unhappy, derisive laugh, the tip of the sword doing a shaky little loop in the air.

“Well, I’m not! I’m here for everything I can get, as per usual, and then I’m out of here! Hasn’t been nice knowing you, let’s not write- “

“I’m sorry,” Íþróttaálfurinn interrupted, his voice breaking a little.

Glanni paused, staring at him – his lips twisted down unpleasantly, eyes wide.

“So what?” he demanded, after a moment, baring his teeth. “I’m sorry too. Sorry for falling for your act. I should’ve known better. I, out of anyone, should’ve known better!”

“It wasn’t an act,” Íþróttaálfurinn said lowly, helplessly – rubbing his cold hands over his overheated face, swallowing, searching for the words. “I – I’m sorry I said what I did before. I’m sorry it came out of my mouth. I’m sorry for – all of it, really, how I behaved, it was- ”

“Technically,” Glanni sneered, his tone chilly, “you were correct. So- ”

“No!”

Glanni flinched – Íþróttaálfurinn had said it louder than he’d intended as he stared at Glanni, who had angry blotches of pink on his cheeks, who was holding that sword like someone used to a switchblade, who was trying to fit a candelabra into a suitcase.

“No,” Íþróttaálfurinn repeated hoarsely. “I mean – you could. I don’t doubt that, but – we were friends.” He paused, looking at Glanni seriously. “I should – should’ve - trusted you at least that much.”

“You should’ve!” Glanni snapped.

“Yes,” Íþróttaálfurinn said simply – looking at Glanni across the dusty floor, his jaw clenching tightly. They stared at each other.

“Well,” Glanni hesitated – and he looked like he was considering, reluctantly, sullenly. The sword lowered an inch, then two. He flashed his teeth like he was annoyed. “You really shouldn’t. I mean,” he gestured around vaguely. “I’m stealing from you as we speak.”  

“You can have it all,” Íþróttaálfurinn said softly – something in his voice verging on tender, enough for Glanni to glance at him sharply. “You can keep what you want,” Íþróttaálfurinn added hastily. “That is to say. I don’t really have use for it.”

Glanni considered him, and then shook his head: dropping the sword on the ground, turning away.

“I still don’t get it!” he announced, clenching his hands into fists, glancing at Íþróttaálfurinn irritably. “What, were you just having a bad day or something? Was it something I did? Said? Because if you do it again- “

This time Íþróttaálfurinn looked away, swallowing, the words almost painful as he forced them out. “I – I was – I was worried you’d get hurt if I let you go.”

There was silence. After a few seconds, Íþróttaálfurinn dared to look up: only to find Glanni standing close, staring at him with wide, unreadable eyes.

“You,” Glanni started slowly, sounding almost awed. “Idiot.”

Íþróttaálfurinn barked a startled breathless laugh and Glanni rolled his eyes so hard they looked in danger of falling out, shifting as if to step back – and Íþróttaálfurinn reached out, fingers curling around his thin forearms, holding him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Íþróttaálfurinn said helplessly, hoarsely, “I really am – I should’ve just said that, instead of the other thing, I’m sorry, I'm so sorry-“

Glanni started to look genuinely alarmed, his face so close Íþróttaálfurinn could see the specks of glitter on his eyelids, his expressive, painted mouth twisting in a grimace before settling into something akin to helpless fondness.

“You can stop saying that now. It’s not like I haven’t done worse. A lot worse.”

“I’ll get you chocolate,” Íþróttaálfurinn said abruptly, firmly. Glanni looked stunned, gaping at Íþróttaálfurinn, before he adopted a calculating expression.

"Belgian?" 

"If you want." 

“Louboutins?”

Íþróttaálfurinn leaned in – leaned his forehead against Glanni’s shoulder, holding on tightly so he wouldn’t pull away. “I don’t know what those are, but if it’s candy, you can have it,” he mumbled.  

“Ibuprofen?”

“That too, if you have a headache- “

“No,” Glanni stopped, irritably, and then. “Ibuprofen – are you falling asleep on me?”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned his head, so that his breath ghosted against the thin material of Glanni’s suit, against his neck, leaning his head there tiredly.  

“No,” he said, and then: “I’m still your friend, if you’ll have me. And the deal is still a deal. That - I should've never, it went too far- ”

“I assumed so,” Glanni rasped out. “When you started promising me refined sugar. I want coffee too, by the way. Nice coffee. Coffee shop coffee. They put - all sorts of flavourings in them.”

“Just give me a list and I’ll get it.”

Glanni shifted, the warmth of his body lingering almost teasingly against Íþróttaálfurinn’s, and he wanted to lean in, press his mouth against the pulse on Glanni’s throat – but he didn’t, gripping his arms instead, holding him there like an unwilling cat, exhaustion washing over him as the relief set in.

“You really do – think of me as a friend, then?” Glanni said after a moment. He sounded strange – tentative, almost wondering.

Íþróttaálfurinn paused. He wanted to – wrap his arms around Glanni’s waist, feel the other man against him, sink his teeth into the malleable skin hiding under the black catsuit – he wanted to tilt his head up and kiss Glanni’s red, sticky lips, cup his face and feel his breath against his mouth, smudge and tousle him thoroughly.

He realized, belatedly, that he might be in bit of a trouble.

“Of course I do,” he whispered hoarsely.  

Chapter Text

Íþróttaálfurinn eyed the chalkboard menu above the counter warily, shifting from foot to foot.

The strong, heady smell of caffeine in the coffee shop was starting to make him dizzy. A variety of exotic and nauseatingly sugary pastries sat behind a glass case, and even the presence of salads at the bottom shelf didn’t make Íþróttaálfurinn feel any better about them. A few of the customers in front of him had started giving him odd looks, and not just because Íþróttaálfurinn kept letting them go past him as he tried to gather his nerve. He clutched the piece of paper in his slightly sweaty hand, willing himself to be strong.

He wasn’t sure why the customers at the tables had ceased conversation and were surreptitiously trying to cover up their unhealthy drinks or snacks while looking at him: he felt like a father who’d just walked in on their teenager doing something weird. He just wanted to get out of here.

A perky young girl with expertly pencilled eyebrows took her position behind the cash register.

“Hi!” she started. “What can I get you, s- “ Her demeanour shifted to disbelief. “Sportacus?”

“Uh, yes,” Íþróttaálfurinn said awkwardly. “Yes. It’s me.”

“Here for – coffee?”

“Yes.” Íþróttaálfurinn paused. She stared. He bounced from foot to foot again. “I have a list. It’s to-go.”

“You have?” she asked. Íþróttaálfurinn handed her the piece of paper.

She seemed smaller, somehow – like her life had suddenly stopped making as much sense as it had moments ago, as she scanned through it.

“Do you –“ Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed, keeping the eye-contact determinedly. He and the girl barista were in this together. “Do you put whipped cream on take-away orders?”

“Yes?” she said, her eyes darting to the sides as if she was searching for hidden cameras.

The coffee shop had gone deathly silent. Another barista was slowly pouring cream into an overflowing cup, staring at Íþróttaálfurinn like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

“And,” Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath. “Those muffins. Over there.”

“Yes?” she whispered, staring at Íþróttaálfurinn in mesmerized horror. “Which one would you like?”

“I’m – I’m going to need all of them.”

Something shattered behind him. He didn’t turn to look.

“Okay,” the girl said weakly. She typed some things into her cash register. “So that’s a – Belgian white chocolate cocoa with whipped cream, a caramel bruleé crème frappucino, and a peppermint mocha, and – and – the muffins.” She looked like she was afraid to ask. “Anything else?”

Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath and glanced around. All eyes were on him, waiting, worrying.

“I’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely, looking at her. “Yes.”

“Oh Sportacus,” she breathed out, clutching his list. There were tears, glistening, unshed, in her eyes. “It’s okay. I understand. Just tell me.”

“I need – a single slice of brownie. Please.”

There was a shuddering sigh, and a thump: the second barista had fainted behind the counter. A scandalized murmur broke out throughout the shop.

She swallowed, and then stood up straighter, only pausing to nudge the pot of coffee away from her fallen comrade: visibly bracing herself to be professional, to carry this transaction through to its bitter end. Íþróttaálfurinn felt a rush of real, raw pride for her.

“Topped with caramel, or with sprinkles?”

*

“I’m back!” Íþróttaálfurinn called out as soon as he stepped through the front door. “Someone got a concussion because of you. I hope you’re happy.”

“Just one?” Glanni’s voice drifted airily from the sitting room. “Oh well. The day’s not over yet.”

“I brought you what you asked for, but I’d appreciate if you let me leave the room before you consume any of it,” Íþróttaálfurinn said loudly, turning to stalk towards the source of the voice, stomping his feet to get rid of the excess snow. “I’m assuming you’re going to unhinge your jaw like a snake, and- “ he stepped into the room and into an explosion of glitter.

Stephanie looked up where she was sitting on the floor, surrounded by stacks of pink paper, crayons, markers and yes, bottles of glitter, tape stuck in her hair. She flashed Íþróttaálfurinn a sunny smile. He hid the brown paper bags he was holding behind his back. It was a reflex.  

“Stephanie! What are you – I mean- “

“I’m helping Glanni with the flyers,” Stephanie announced proudly. It explained absolutely nothing.

Glanni was sitting on the couch, leaning over her to examine her handiwork with the air of an art connoisseur.

“Good work on the glitter, kid,” he said. “But why’s that E the right way around? I thought I told you to write it in backwards.”

Stephanie scowled up at him, putting her marker down as if they’d been having this argument often. “It’s not right! I know how to write properly! I’m eleven.”

“That’s not the point,” Glanni said patiently. There was glitter in his hair. There was glitter in his face, and in his clothes, the whole man sparkling like a Christmas tree. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t sure whether it was intentional or not. “The backwards E is cutesy. It’s charming. Like something written by a very professional child. People love shit like that.”

“Hey,” Íþróttaálfurinn barked, bristling a little. “Language, Glanni.”

“Fuck,” Glanni said, flashing Íþróttaálfurinn a smirk. “I said that, didn’t I?” Stephanie looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be scandalized or laugh, settling to covering her mouth as she glanced between them.

“I’ll pour your disgusting sugar bean juice down the drain,” Íþróttaálfurinn warned, finally revealing his haul. Glanni immediately adopted the most repentant expression Íþróttaálfurinn had ever seen, gazing at him with wide eyes, flashing his teeth unnecessarily coyly.

“What is that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. “What’s that supposed to be? Are you having a stroke?”

“I’ve seen the error of my ways, obviously,” Glanni purred. “I won’t cuss anymore. No foul words will pass my lips. Only the most innocent, disgustingly pure substitutes, like in those shows Pinkie here probably watches. On my honour.” Íþróttaálfurinn had to stifle the immediate urge to scoff.  

“I like the one with the horses,” Stephanie said thoughtfully.

“See?” Glanni said, holding out his hands. He wriggled his fingers expectantly. “Give me the coffee, Sportabean. I mean Sportacus. Did you get the whipped cream? Is it chocolatey?”

“I- “ Íþróttaálfurinn had a sudden and unpleasant flashback to about two dozen customers staring at him like they’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “I did,” he said regretfully. He handed the bags over to Glanni, who ripped them open, pulling out a styrofoam cup. Íþróttaálfurinn watched as he closed his eyes, quieting down to take a blissful sip, his throat working.

There was glitter on his neck too. Íþróttaálfurinn wanted to lick it off, despite the inevitable gagging.

Stephanie was watching Glanni too – or more accurately, his drink.

“Here, kid,” Glanni drawled abruptly, dug into the bag, and graciously tossed her a blueberry muffin. “Have a snack break. You’ve earned it.” Stephanie caught it hastily, staring at it for a second before she scowled at Glanni, putting the muffin down primly.

“I don’t eat pastries,” she announced. “In fact, I’m going to have an apple for a snack.”

“Ugh,” Glanni said, rolling his eyes at Íþróttaálfurinn. “She’s like a pinker, meaner version of you.”

“What do you mean, meaner,” Íþróttaálfurinn started, trying not to preen at the words like you, when he realized there was a question he hadn’t asked yet. “Wait, what are those flyers for?”

“Ah!” Glanni sprang up to his feet – it’d been a while since Íþróttaálfurinn had seen him like this, clutching his cup lovingly against his chest, grinning in a sort of helplessly pleased fashion. The only thing coming close to it had been when Íþróttaálfurinn had gotten him the makeup. He wondered whether Glanni was just incredibly materialistic, or whether he just didn’t get presents that often.

It was probably both.

An aggressively glittery flyer was thrusted into his face suddenly. Íþróttaálfurinn grabbed it hastily before Glanni could literally rub his nose in it, pulling it back to squint at it.

“A furniture sale?” he said, incredulous. “You’re – arranging a furniture sale in my house?”  

“Another genius idea from Glanni Glæpur,” Glanni announced. “It’s so simple. They come in, we auction off some select rare items, you do some acrobatics, the crowd cheers. I never leave the house, as per our agreement.”

“Hold on,” Íþróttaálfurinn held up his hands, deliberately ignoring Stephanie, who was furtively peeling off a small piece of her muffin. “First of – wait, I’m not sure what should come first, there are so many- “

“Take your time,” Glanni said grandly.

“Acrobatics?”

“We have to draw them in somehow,” Glanni said smugly. “Look, the kid drew you in the flyers- “

“Yes, it’s- it’s very impressive, Stephanie, I look like I’m made out of coconuts, but- “

“You’re welcome,” Stephanie said brightly.

“First of all – why is she here?” Íþróttaálfurinn glared at Glanni suspiciously. “Did you force her to help you?”

“No!” Glanni drew back, indignant. “She asked to help when she came around for her winnings.” Íþróttaálfurinn looked at him sceptically, and then looked at Stephanie. She pulled her hand away from the vicinity of the muffin hastily.

“It’s true,” she said. “I thought it’d be good – to help you make your house more- “ she paused, wrinkling her nose delicately as she looked around. “Homey. It’s pretty cramped in here.”

Íþróttaálfurinn took a deep breath. Then he proceeded on, briskly.

“You’ll reveal yourself.”

“I’ll wear a disguise,” Glanni said smoothly.

“Why would anyone even buy the junk they’ve all been leaving here for years?” Íþróttaálfurinn demanded, desperately. Glanni laughed softly, coming closer – Íþróttaálfurinn tensed up when he felt Glanni’s arm slide around his shoulders, Glanni’s body press against his side, the gesture familiar and altogether strange for them. While Glanni gave out the general air of being handsy, he hadn’t actually touched Íþróttaálfurinn like this before: deliberate and casual at the same time. As if experimenting.

“You leave that to me, Ibuprofen,” Glanni said, low and husky, and there was a genuine pleased gleam in his eyes: “I can sell anything.”

Íþróttaálfurinn hesitated, mostly because he was having trouble processing anything. “But- “

Glanni withdrew his arm suddenly, leaving him cold, and they were standing, face to face. His eyes narrowed just a fraction.

“But what? This is probably the most innocent thing I’ve ever engaged in, and it’s still not good enough for you, friend?” Glanni’s mouth thinned – his teeth flashed. He was pointedly not looking at Stephanie, glaring at Íþróttaálfurinn. “I’m trying, all right?”

Íþróttaálfurinn felt a little jolt as he tried to decipher that, looking at Glanni. Slowly, he handed the flyer back to him.

“Stephanie,” he said, not pulling his eyes away from Glanni’s face. “Maybe you can have the apple and the muffin, just this once?”

“Really?” Stephanie asked. She sounded both surprised and tentatively pleased. “Well – I do like blueberry. Maybe I’ll bring half for Trixie.”

Glanni smirked crookedly – but it wasn’t as smug as it could’ve been. He reached out, and for a moment Íþróttaálfurinn panicked inwardly as the other man’s hand came closer, before it settled on his shoulder – and Íþróttaálfurinn resisted the urge to press into the touch.

“Oh Sportacus,” Glanni said abruptly, looking down at his cup, making a face. “I got glitter in my coffee.”

It took Íþróttaálfurinn a moment.

“Glanni,” he said, eventually. “Did you just use my name as a swear?”

“Pure and innocent,” Glanni grinned, squeezing Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder briefly before pulling his hand back. “Just as promised. Don’t be such a Sportacus about it.”

“I’m going to cram a muffin down your throat,” Íþróttaálfurinn said before he remembered Stephanie was in the room. She looked disturbingly intrigued by the concept anyway.

“If you give me five minutes,” Glanni said, with a tiny, completely inappropriate leer, putting his hands on his hips, “I’ll do it for you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn looked at Glanni, and then did the only thing possible at that point to protect his apparently pristine public image: he took an apple out of his pocket, passed it to Stephanie, and then stalked out of the room.

“Prepare yourself for tomorrow!” Glanni called out after him. “Hide away anything you don’t want sold away! And wear something nice! Oh, who am I kidding – just oil up those guns!”

Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t bother to answer, mostly because he was still trying to figure whether Glanni’s innuendo had been arousing or just plain gross – but he did head off to drag his basket and his favourite mug upstairs to his room.

There was glitter on his shoulder, where Glanni had touched him.

*

A dark forest, familiar in the way something long forgotten was familiar – enveloped them.  

His vision was filled to the brim with Glanni’s crooked grin, before the whole of the man seemed to materialize, his angular face shrouded in shadows, his lipstick bright and smudged, every detail of him painstakingly clear. Somewhere in the distance, there were drums, mingling with his heartbeat until he couldn’t tell which was which - Glanni’s lips parted against his, warm and taunting as the other man pulled back an inch or two, his laughter echoing, and Íþróttaálfurinn growled in protest: his fingers tangled in the short dark hair, gripped and held on tight as the drums grew louder, more insistent -

He woke up with a start, at 8:05 precisely, flinging himself out of the bed with such force he tumbled between the chairs, rolling on the floor before springing up to his feet, blinking dazedly as he took in his surroundings.

It was still dark outside. He was alone.

The drumming continued. It took Íþróttaálfurinn a few seconds more to realize it wasn’t drums – someone was knocking on the door downstairs.

Íþróttaálfurinn took only a few seconds to pull himself together decently and pull his cap on, before he vaulted downstairs, landing a few feet from the door, which he wrenched open briskly. There was more furniture downstairs than before – Glanni had made him carry it down, before he and Stephanie had gone around plastering pink price tags on everything.

An old man, his hand still raised to knock, gave Íþróttaálfurinn a good-natured smile.

“Hello there, Sportacus! Is this the place for the big auction, then? Only, the missus has been hankering for a new coffee table- “

“I’ve been looking for a new coffee table,” a round, greying woman piped in, revealing herself from behind her husband, giving Íþróttaálfurinn a wide-eyed stare. “Ours is good, you see, it’s oak but it’s got these stains that are just unbearable- “

“Unbearable,” the husband hurried to agree.

“Isn’t it,” Íþróttaálfurinn said slowly, “isn’t it a bit early?”

The old man guffawed, his wife joining in. “Good one, Sportacus!”

Íþróttaálfurinn stepped aside hastily, without thinking, as he let them inside.

“Well, you got me there,” he muttered, as the senior citizens made a beeline for the furniture gathered in the hall. He stared after them, and then ran back up the stairs.

Glanni, unsurprisingly, was still sound asleep: wrapped up tight in his bathrobe, his pale face slack and clean from makeup, emitting that soft, purring sound in lieu of a snore that made Íþróttaálfurinn pause before he reached out, gently touching his shoulder.

Glanni started, opening his eyes abruptly, his fingers curling around Íþróttaálfurinn’s wrist tightly.

They stared at each other in the dark. Íþróttaálfurinn thought of the scent of pine trees and Glanni’s hoarse laughter.

“They’re here,” Íþróttaálfurinn blurted out. Glanni blinked blearily, before he looked around wildly, a delicate grimace on his face.

“Who? What? Okay, I’ve got a kitchen knife under the bed- “

“What?” Íþróttaálfurinn paused, incredulous, alarmed, and slightly impressed. “No, I mean – your stupid sale! Someone actually came for it, they’re downstairs- “

“Oh,” Glanni leaned back, yawning, and released Íþróttaálfurinn’s wrist. Then his eyes widened and he sat up sharply. “They’re here? What time is it?”

“A little past eight,” Íþróttaálfurinn said helplessly. “Should I – I’m not sure I can tell them to just go away, I’m not good at that- “

“Eight?!” Glanni ran his fingers through his hair distractedly, staring into the distance for a moment despairingly like the world had collectively betrayed him. “Fine, whatever – I need to – I, hm, I need to – get ready! Yes! You keep them distracted until then!”

“People in this town tend to wake up early these days,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, watching as Glanni rolled off the bed and onto a pile of clothes, crawling his way over to his mirror like a very sleek turtle. “Are you going to put on some kind of a – disguise, then?”

Glanni waved his hand distractedly. “Of course! Just – make sure they don’t leave, Ibuprofen-“

“Should I bring you some kind of breakfast?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked. Glanni made a vague sound, staring at his collection of lipsticks like trying to solve a complex equation.

“I’m going to bring you some kind of breakfast,” Íþróttaálfurinn decided. He turned, heading back downstairs, pausing by the landing to grab the bannister and fling himself over it. He hadn’t even had time to do his usual exercises – running up and down the stairs would have to do it. Maybe a couple of push-ups.

“Young man!” The old couple from before approached him in a sort of determined shuffle, while Íþróttaálfurinn shifted from foot to foot, restlessly.

“When’s it starting, then?” the old man asked, expression shrewd. “Only, we saw a good one in the other room, and we’d like to reserve it- a coffee table, that is- “

“Our old one’s got stains!” the old lady piped up.  

“You can- ” Íþróttaálfurinn started, uncertain. He was fairly sure Glanni would pitch a fit if he just gave it to the old couple for free. “Or, I mean – uh – that is to say – it’s starting very soon! But not yet. But soon. Um. I need to go over here, excuse me- “

He bolted to the kitchen, guiltily. Behind him, the old lady was still plaintively calling out about her living room décor.

*

Íþróttaálfurinn was in the middle of slicing up an apple to arrange it with the pear, when Stephanie walked in, as if she lived there and had just decided to pop down for some breakfast. He nearly cut himself. She stole a slice of pear and ate it.

“Good morning, Sportacus,” she greeted him, grinning up at him as if enjoying his bemusement: Íþróttaálfurinn thought, darkly, that Glanni was getting to be a bit too much of an influence.

“Good morning,” he said, skewering a piece of apple with his knife and offering it to her. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping out, of course,” Stephanie said earnestly. “It wasn’t just for yesterday.” She looked around. “So where is he?”

“Upstairs, “ Íþróttaálfurinn snorted, turning back to the cutting board. “Probably caught up in his own reflection again. I once saw him sit down to put on some lipstick and  found him two hours later blowing kisses at himself- “ he stopped. Stephanie was looking at him, and Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t quite decipher the look he was getting. “What?”

“You two just seem a lot friendlier than- “ Stephanie paused. “Never mind. What about the people?”

Íþróttaálfurinn put his knife down slowly, staring at her. “What people?”

She pointed at the window. Íþróttaálfurinn turned to look, peering outside. There was a steady line of Lazytowners outside on the street, milling about in the pale light of the morning. He suddenly became aware of the fact that the hum of conversation outside the kitchen had grown steadily louder while he’d been in there.

Íþróttaálfurinn stalked out, and was immediately met with at least two dozen people in the hallway, and more wandering into the living room. The door was open – more and more people were coming in, most of them clutching familiar sparkly and pink flyers. There was a velvet rope Íþróttaálfurinn had never seen before, strapped on the stairs to keep people out. He had absolutely no idea how it’d gotten there.

“Ah,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, and then raised his voice, calling over the crowd. “Hello?”

Several heads turned into his direction: to his credit, most of them were smiling, warm greetings returning from around the room. Sportacus was a familiar figure for most Lazytowners, and well-liked too, even though seeing so many of them in his house felt a bit awkward, as if they’d caught him in his underwear. Íþróttaálfurinn suddenly remembered that his socks were still hanging above the fireplace.

Stephanie came out of the kitchen, and he leapt on top of a set of drawers, perching there to make room for her as more people came in.

“How many flyers did you pass out?” he asked gingerly. In the crowd, he spotted the mayor, his arm linked with Miss Busybody’s. They waved at him.  

“Uh,” Stephanie said, staring. “A lot? Most of the town definitely knows about this. Glanni wanted to be sure of that.” She paused. “He was cackling when he said it, though. So maybe he didn’t mean it.”

“He did,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, voice hollow, as even more people came in, the front door never managing to close properly. He was starting to feel a sense of impending doom – Íþróttaálfurinn could deal with troublemakers and unhealthy kids, but this many people packed into one house seemed like a recipe for disaster. Glanni had to have bitten off more than he could chew.

It seemed like the crowd was sensing this too – people jostling each other as the murmur of conversation grew restless – unable to move about in the hallway, many of them pointing to Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Excuse me,” someone called out, and Íþróttaálfurinn stood up in an effort to make them out. “Sportacus? You wouldn’t happen to know when the auction is starting, would you?”

“There is one, right?” someone else asked. “That’s what the flyer said- “

“There should be one soon,” Íþróttaálfurinn started, but this just seemed to provoke more disgruntled murmuring.

He turned to look down at Stephanie, to tell her to go home, but somehow she’d disappeared – and more people were calling out unintelligible questions, while Íþróttaálfurinn found himself stranded on his tiny island, and it felt like only a matter of time before someone would raise their voice-

There was a loud, popping sound that echoed in the hallway, before a cloud of glitter and confetti rained down on the startled townspeople, eliciting a few shrieks.

“Citizens of Lazytown!” a deep, familiar voice called out from the top of the stairs, through the haze of sparkles everyone were blinking out of their eyes. “If I could please have your attention! All eyes on me.“

It was Glanni. It was unmistakably Glanni – he was wearing the fur-coat he’d found in the attic over his usual catsuit, and the top-hat too, sheer black gloves in his hands, his lipstick an unusually dark, striking purple – and as he was standing above the crowd on the landing, the air shimmering and glittering around him, dreamy and theatrical, the first of the rising sun caught him in a breath-taking, natural spotlight.

Íþróttaálfurinn, indeed, felt his breath catch in his throat – and then he thought, no mask, nothing to cover his face, people were going to recognize him – and terror gripped him tight as he tensed up, ready for the first indignant shout. He turned to look at the crowd, only to find them staring: as mesmerized as Íþróttaálfurinn had been mere seconds ago.

“Welcome,” Glanni said, his voice silky, somehow intimate despite reaching to the farthest corners of the house, “to the biggest furniture auction and sale in the Lazytown history! A big hand for everyone here today! Come on!”

The crowd started clapping, hesitant at first, and Glanni pointed at Íþróttaálfurinn enthusiastically.

“And a big hand for the town hero who’s here with us today! Sportd- Sportacus! Give us a wave, big guy!”

This time, the applause was louder, joined by a few genuinely enthusiastic cheers. Íþróttaálfurinn grinned, waving a bit awkwardly.

“Today,” Glanni continued, raising his voice as he gestured at the crowd, his eyes glittering, “we’re not just buying new dining room chairs,” he scoffed, “or living room couches, or drawers for our bedrooms, oh no -  today we’re turning our homes, our most sacred spaces, into dreams! Yes! I am your auctioneer, Hentugur Húsgagn, and I promise you, Lazytown – you will not leave here emptyhanded!”

The crowd cheered again, and Glanni pretended to swoon, pressing a hand to his chest as he grinned down at them – charming, glittering man, his hat cocked playfully as he winked.

“Aside from your wallets, that is,” he said, and a sizeable number of people chortled.

It was – it was strange, Íþróttaálfurinn had to admit. It was like his own glamour, except he could sense no magic from Glanni, no tricks aside from the expertly applied winged mascara. And no one, no one seemed to have realized who they were looking at, despite the fact that Glanni’s face had been all over the newspapers for weeks – somehow Glanni Glæpur was completely divorced from this ethereal, enthusiastic being standing at the top of the stairs, ready to dispense furniture as if it was a cure for all known diseases. If he didn’t know any better, he could’ve believed it was, indeed, Hentugur, a completely different person.

Íþróttaálfurinn was starting to realize how Glanni had managed to have such a lucrative career before coming to Lazytown.

“Our first item of today – a genuine artefact which once belonged, believe it or not, to the Queen of France, who rested her pretty little feet on it for nearly a decade – this ottoman!”

“Do you have some kind of a certificate?” an elderly woman piped up uncertainly. Glanni wheeled around, gazing down at her earnestly.

“Of course! Good heavens, it’s not as if I’m some wily conman trying to part you good people from your money with some second-hand IKEA. Ha ha!” His demeanour suddenly grew steely as he growled out: “Bidding starts at two thousand krónur.”

About a dozen hands shot up hastily. Íþróttaálfurinn shook his head, jumping down from his vantage spot, pushing through the crowd hoping to catch a glimpse of some familiar pink.

He found Stephanie in the sitting room, where she’d set up shop at a convenient dining room table, a pink lunch box sitting before her, already filling up with cash. People were lining up to pay for their purchases, giving Íþróttaálfurinn dirty looks as he cut past them to get to her. He was a little startled to spot Trixie – arguing with a middle-aged woman about the price of a particularly hideous vase Íþróttaálfurinn had been hiding behind the couch: Pixel was under the table, holding a console inches away from his face, and Stingy was studiously counting the money.

“Jives and Ziggy are outside,” Stephanie informed him primly before he could ask. “Helping people with some of the heavier stuff.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Íþróttaálfurinn said helplessly. “Especially not for – you know.” He gave Stephanie a meaningful look, nodding towards Glanni’s voice.

“I’m not,” Stephanie said. “We’re not. We’re doing this for you.”

“Yeah!” Pixel piped from under the table.

“And for a cut of the proceeds,” Stingy said.

“No, Stingy,” Stephanie said wearily, like they’d been having this conversation a lot.

“Plus, it’s fun,” Trixie announced, as she popped up next to Íþróttaálfurinn. She was holding the vase. “Hey Pinky, ring this up for me. We’re gonna break it behind the school tomor-“ she stopped, looking up at Íþróttaálfurinn slowly. “I mean. Put some pretty, pretty flowers in it.” She beamed up at him earnestly. “Because we’re girls.”

Stephanie let out a choked sound suspiciously like a giggle.

“Just clean up afterwards, Trixie.”

She saluted. “Roger that, Sportaboss!”

Íþróttaálfurinn bit down a smile, putting his hands on his hips, mock-stern. “And how’s your training going, when you’re not engaging in petty destruction?”

Trixie held up her arm, flexing. “Feel it!”

Íþróttaálfurinn put his hand on her wiry bicep, his mouth curling. “Not bad. Looks like you’ve been eating your sportscandy every day.”

“And a lot of protein,” Trixie said smugly.

“Oh, feel mine too!” Stingy piped up urgently, the money momentarily forgotten as he started rolling up his sleeve. “I’ve been doing a lot of exercise too!” Pixel peeked out from under the table, shyly.

Íþróttaálfurinn busied himself for a moment to giving out praise and encouragement, while Stephanie handled the business: then he told the kids where to find snacks if they got hungry, and headed back to the hallway.

Glanni was holding a hat rack, looking just about ready to give it a kiss and take it to a honeymoon in Hawaii. The audience was entranced.

“Who’s got six thousand?” Glanni called out. “The gentleman in the back – six and a half! Anyone for seven thousand? Come on, people, this thing saved lives!”

“It’s just like the one I got for you two years ago, Bessie,” the mayor remarked jovially. “Fancy that, eh? The twin of your hat rack used to rescue all those people from the fire?”

“Yes,” said Miss Busybody, staring intently ahead, her expression composed. “Fancy that.”

“Sold!” Glanni hollered gleefully. “For eight thousand krónur to the lady in the front!”

Íþróttaálfurinn leaned against the wall by the front door, his mouth curling helplessly as he watched Glanni prance around on the stairs and blow kisses to his audience. People were having a good time by now – it was like Glanni had cast some kind of a spell on everyone, the crowd joking and jostling each other playfully, calling out to him, the winners of the auction pieces receiving their goods with dazed disbelief, like they couldn’t believe their good luck. It was almost – no, it was – fun.

“Next up, we have- “ Glanni dragged a lamp up for everyone to see, turning it in his hands, pursing his lips, “a rather nice – huh, really nice lamp – I didn’t get a good look at it before- this’d look really nice in my room- “

Someone held up their hand. “Two thousand!”

“Hold your horses!” Glanni commanded, looking around until his eyes met Íþróttaálfurinn’s, and his expression brightened. “Ah! Looks like we’ve got two and a half in the back! The man who forgot his sleeves today!”

“No we don’t,” Íþróttaálfurinn said firmly, his arms still crossed. Glanni’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Three thousand!” he called out. A few people in the crowd raised their hands hesitantly. Glanni ignored them.

“I didn’t raise my hand,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, his eyes narrowing too. “Look, if you want it so bad- “

“What was that? Five thousand from local hero! How generous! How kind! He doesn’t even work for a living!”

“I’m not bidding!”

“Six thousand!” Glanni growled, glaring at Íþróttaálfurinn.

The audience had by now quieted down to follow the spectacle, all eyes on Íþróttaálfurinn.

Íþróttaálfurinn threw up his hands. “Fine! How about eight thousand, while we’re at it!?”

“Nine!” Glanni cajoled gleefully. Íþróttaálfurinn was starting to grin helplessly, as he straightened.

“Ten!”

“Eleven!”

People’s heads were moving back and forth like in a tennis match.

“Twelve!”

“Thirteen!”

“Twenty thousand krónur!” Íþróttaálfurinn announced, puffing up his chest, hands on his hips. “And no more!”

“Twenty thousand!” Glanni called out, holding up the lamp in the air triumphantly, his eyes wild and glittering. “Twenty thousand for this surprisingly stylish lamp! Going once, going twice- “

“And I’ll juggle,” Íþróttaálfurinn hurried to add.

Glanni lowered his hand slowly, before grinning brilliantly at Íþróttaálfurinn from across the room, like he was the only person there. The only one who mattered.

“Twenty thousand krónur, and a juggling act,” Glanni announced. “Sold, to the surprisingly handsome gentleman with a dashing moustache.”

Íþróttaálfurinn was grinning too, before he vaulted over the crowd, landing onto the stairs below Glanni. Their eyes met for a moment, and Íþróttaálfurinn caught it then – whatever propelled Glanni onwards, as he stood there sharing the spotlight, the joke, the plot, with him. He turned back to the crowd, who cheered automatically, and did a little bow.

“Now, folks,” Íþróttaálfurinn called out, flexing his arms. “I’m going to ask you to start tossing small items at me, one at a time.”

Behind him, Glanni started laughing, just like in his dream.

*

Hours and hours later - the house was quiet once more, the windows painted orange in the setting sun, and the floor downstairs was littered with discarded flyers and footprints, something to clean up later on. A considerable amount of furniture had been sold off – it was strange, the feeling of space that the house suddenly offered. Simultaneously empty and liberating.

Glanni was sitting at the top of the stairs, his feet stretched out, the fur-coat hanging down from his shoulders decadently, his hat discarded somewhere – last Íþróttaálfurinn had seen, Trixie had been wearing it. He had a suspicion it was gone for good.

Íþróttaálfurinn came over, sitting down next to him, and offered Glanni a bottle.

Glanni blinked in surprise as he came back from wherever his thoughts had taken him, and then looked affronted. “You had that? The whole time?”

“It’s elven wine,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, mouth quirking, watching as Glanni twisted the cork off expertly, and then proceeded to take a swig. “Be careful, it’s- “ Glanni started coughing, “- strong.”

“Oh,” Glanni wheezed, blinking rapidly, licking his lips. “Wow. Where have you been all my life?”

“Eating right and contributing to society?”

“I was talking to the wine,” Glanni rasped, turning his head to grin at Íþróttaálfurinn. He offered him the bottle. Íþróttaálfurinn took it, Glanni’s smile infectious as he had a sip: sweet warmth spread from his tongue down his throat, to his chest, to the rest of his body, his shoulders relaxing.

Glanni sighed out, tilting his head back, and then let out a triumphant crow. “Oh, that felt good! You know what my favourite part was?”

“What?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, watching Glanni’s face. He held out the bottle and Glanni took it.

“The- “ Glanni paused to drink, smacking his lips contently. “The fight. I’ve always wanted to have two guys fighting over me.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stared thoughtfully at the sun-soaked windows.

“They weren’t exactly fighting over you, though,” he said eventually. “They were fighting over a carved wooden bear. You know. For their garden.”

“Yes, but- “

“And they were both well over seventy. They were just sort of – shoving each other. I hardly had to step in at all.”

“Don’t be so tedious with the details, Sportabuzzkill.” Glanni scoffed, taking a swig, and then another, before he passed the bottle to Íþróttaálfurinn.

“You know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, holding the bottle to his lips, but not drinking yet, “I think your little takeout order might have seriously damaged my reputation. I was getting a lot of looks today. People were talking behind my back. You made me order a brownie.”

Glanni snorted, and shifted closer, his arm nudging Íþróttaálfurinn’s. “That’s because you’re you. And you spent like an hour walking on your hands. Besides- “ he drawled, looking at Íþróttaálfurinn under his lashes. “You can afford to be a little… besmirched, can’t you?”

Íþróttaálfurinn took a slow, careful sip of the wine, letting the sunny, sweet taste rest on his tongue as he looked at Glanni. “And you can afford a little honest work, now and then. Well – relatively honest. No one got hurt and all that.”

“I guess,” Glanni said, eyeing Íþróttaálfurinn unreadably.

“In fact,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, a little uncertain, “you were – well, you were amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anyone do what you do.”

Glanni leaned back, and Íþróttaálfurinn felt an odd twinge in his chest at the loss of contact – but the other man was smiling, his mouth curling in a crooked line like he was genuinely pleased and unsure what to do with the praise.

“Well, I’ve always liked disguises,” Glanni said airily, suddenly modest, holding out his hand. Íþróttaálfurinn gave him the bottle wordlessly. “Thank you – I’ve always liked that thrill you get when you convince someone you’re someone else entirely. My sister used to say we come from a whole line of tricksters, going back to some guy – Floke or something – so I suppose you could say it’s in my blood.” He took a small sip of the wine, licking his purple lips thoughtfully. He looked at Íþróttaálfurinn, the corners of his mouth tugging oddly.

“Besides – it’s useful, every once in a while. To be someone - someone likable.”

Glanni leaned his shoulder against the wall, his face soft for a moment, thoughtful – his hair tousled and his makeup less than pristine, leaving him looking worn and harangued – glitter catching the light on his cheekbones, mascara caked to the corners of his eyes, pink tongue poking between his lips and ruining the effect. Íþróttaálfurinn was – transfixed.

“I like you,” Íþróttaálfurinn said softly. “I mean – you, you.”

Glanni turned his head and smiled, with a curl of his lip that showed a hint of teeth – looking like he might laugh at Íþróttaálfurinn, like he might scoff or sneer: and Íþróttaálfurinn reached out for the wine, his hand somehow finding Glanni’s, his fingers somehow curling around his wrist, his fingers digging into the thin flesh there, as they stared at each other.

There was a piece of confetti, just resting on the skin underneath Glanni’s left eye. Íþróttaálfurinn reached out, with his other hand, to take it carefully between his thumb and his forefinger.

“I- “ Glanni said, rasping it out – and then spoke softly, looking at him. “I think – I’m actually going to miss this place. Now that I’ve made it all nice, I mean.”

Íþróttaálfurinn felt like his veins had suddenly turned to ice.

He released Glanni’s wrist, his fingers flexing, taking a shuddering breath as something passed through them, and he wanted to – tell Glanni he could stay, that he could have whatever he wanted, he wanted to tell him he had to – he wanted to take his face between his hands and –

He stood up. Glanni looked up at him, the sun shifting away – leaving him pale and washed out, his eyes lost in the smudged makeup, his expression – dismayed, somehow.

“You can have the rest of that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, nodding at the bottle. He hunched his shoulders, searching for something else to say.

“Thank you,” he said, finally, and then: “Good night, Glanni.”

He prowled away – the warmth of Glanni’s skin lingering on his hands like they’d been burned.

*

The thing about elven wine was – the thing about it was that it was happiness bottled – it left traces of itself coursing in your blood, it turned your gaze upwards and made you feel like summer was coming around the corner, it made you smell the lilacs and feel the sun on your skin.

It wasn’t the best drink to have right before bed, when you’d nearly kissed your – enemy turned friend.

Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t surprised.

He sat, his feet planted against the cold floor, staring at his hands – slowly curling and uncurling his fingers as he inhaled slowly. His room had been dark for an hour or so, but Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t lie down.

His mind felt like still water, all of his thoughts roiling, unseen, wild, and not properly formed, somewhere underneath the artificial calm. He felt like a coward. He felt – he felt like he wanted to run across the city, like he wanted to jump and scream like some ancient thing, he felt tender and terrifying all at once – he felt like he was running out of excuses.

Íþróttaálfurinn lifted his shaking hands, running them through his hair, rubbing them across his heated face as he drew a shuddering breath.

The next thing he knew – the next thing he knew, he was walking across the dark corridor, pausing, when he got the closed door of Glanni’s room. There was a sliver of light in the narrow space between the door and the floor.

Íþróttaálfurinn felt like he was falling, like the floor didn’t exist and he was dropping into some endless void as he reached for the door-handle.

The door wrenched open – and Glanni stared at him in wide-eyed surprise, before the other man let go of the door as if it’d burned him.

“I was just,” Glanni started hoarsely. “I was- “

Íþróttaálfurinn stepped in and Glanni didn’t step back – and Íþróttaálfurinn put his arm around Glanni’s waist and reached up and it was all some fluid motion, like a dance, when their lips met: something burst in Íþróttaálfurinn’s chest like an explosion of glitter and confetti, and when Glanni gasped, his cold palm cupping the back of Íþróttaálfurinn’s head, he walked them both back inside the room, kissing Glanni again and again, Glanni’s breath warm against his mouth and drawing him back in, and then - he was pushing Glanni against the windowsill, crowding him against the cold glass.

“Can I- “ Íþróttaálfurinn mumbled.

“Yes,” Glanni said immediately, breathing the word out with some force.

Glanni’s arms came around his neck, his head ducked down, and Íþróttaálfurinn wound his fingers into the fine short hair in the back of his head, held on tight – and kissed Glanni hard, everything he’d been holding back flooding into that kiss, a strangled snarl escaping from his lips and Glanni made a rough hoarse sound that went straight to his groin, felt like a jolt down his spine, a shudder running through him: and he pressed in for more, wanting, needing it now –

Glanni tilted his head back – Íþróttaálfurinn resisted the urge to pull him back down – his eyes wide and startled and round, his lipstick just as messy as Íþróttaálfurinn had imagined, panting quietly. 

“Wait,” Glanni mumbled, “what about – didn’t you once tell me something about elves, and kissing, and- “

“Yes,” Íþróttaálfurinn said roughly, holding on tighter. “I told you, you idiot – I like you." He swallowed, ducking his head for a moment. "I like you.”

Glanni stared at him – a myriad of expressions passing through his eyes, as he swallowed – and then, abruptly, he was pushing Íþróttaálfurinn back, away. Letting go of Glanni felt almost physically painful but Íþróttaálfurinn stepped back, breathing out shakily.

“What?”

“No,” Glanni said, shaking his head slowly. “No, that’s – no you don’t.” He seemed, to Íþróttaálfurinn, almost scared – that wide-eyed look persisting, as he gripped the window-sill tight, something pleading in his expression.

Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t think straight. He stared at Glanni, hunching his shoulders, breathing in. “Yes, I do. This isn’t a matter of debate, Glanni. I like you.”

“No, you- “

“Give me a little credit for knowing my own mind, Glanni!”

Glanni shook his head again, flinching back – and his expression shifted into something akin to despair, as he glanced at Íþróttaálfurinn, before he bared his teeth unpleasantly.

“Well. Then you’re even a bigger fool that I gave you credit for.”

Íþróttaálfurinn felt a tremor pass through him – like for the first time, Glanni was inspiring actual fear.

“What did you think I was here for?” he asked, evenly. Glanni let out a mirthless laugh – running his fingers through his hair like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

“For sex!” he snapped. “For a good fuck! Not for – “ Glanni stopped, turning away, drawing in a shuddering breath – and Íþróttaálfurinn stared, frozen to the spot, not a single one of his well-tuned muscles working. Glanni’s profile only showed half of his face, a strange, bitter, strained expression, like he was working himself up to something – before Glanni turned back to him with cold, flat eyes and a sneer.

“Did you really think,” Glanni said, his voice low and verging on a growl, “that we could ever – that we could live happily ever after – together?”

The room was deathly silent – Íþróttaálfurinn felt barely present, his own breath rattling in his ears as he stared at Glanni.

“You kissed me back,” he said, hoarsely, stubbornly.

Glanni looked at him, his eyes gleaming strangely, his mouth twisted downwards, ugly and cruel.

“I think,” he said lowly, “that you should know by now that it doesn’t mean anything.”

Íþróttaálfurinn knew – if there was anything Íþróttaálfurinn knew for a fact, by now, it was that Glanni was at his worst when he was afraid – but he couldn’t think properly – he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move.

Glanni stared at him, and for a moment whatever he saw in Íþróttaálfurinn’s expression made him wide-eyed, made him pale and regretful – and then he turned his gaze away sharply, with a low snarl, grabbing something from the bed.

“This was all just a big mistake,” Glanni said lowly, and Íþróttaálfurinn forced himself to look at the other man as Glanni came closer, searching his face – but Glanni turned his head away, and walked past him to the door.

Íþróttaálfurinn still couldn’t move.

He listened, blankly, as the door downstairs opened and shut quietly, and he stood there, in the room that had once not belonged to anyone, that had been foreign and dusty, that was now unmistakably Glanni’s.

He wanted to trash it, to shatter the things Glanni had so painstakingly collected, to stomp and tear and howl until the room was back to being a stranger: it was an ugly and twisted emotion, and Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed it down.

He also wanted to run after Glanni.

He didn’t do that either.

Eventually, unsure of how long had passed – Íþróttaálfurinn went back to his room, and back to his basket, and climbed in.

*            

Around four or five in the morning, when he wasn’t quite asleep but not quite awake, the crystal on his hat started jingling urgently.

Íþróttaálfurinn took it to the attic, before going back to his non-sleep.

*

He hadn’t been doing his exercises.

He had drank the rest of the elf wine, at some point – judging by the empty bottle, at least – in some attempt to- to feel better. Instead, it had simply left him hollow, too warm and too dizzy, until he’d thrown it all up and sat, heaving on the bathroom floor, not any better for it.

At night, when it was quiet, he could hear the insistent sound of his crystal, muffled, all the way from the attic. 

He was just – still. He moved, from room to room, unable to step outside where the days shone bright as if nothing had happened – and he sat down, and he was still, both physically and mentally.

It felt, not a lot, but a little bit, like being dead.

It was in a moment like this, when he’d been trying to clean away the junk left behind by Glanni – a lot of things, the whole house littered with them, with no care for other people, it’d been obnoxious – that he became aware of someone staring at him.

He looked up. Stephanie was standing there – he hadn’t even heard the door – with her hands on her hips, her brows furrowed worriedly.

“Sportacus?” she said softly. “Are you- " she paused. "You’re not okay.”

Íþróttaálfurinn closed the magazine he’d been flipping through, slowly. He found that he couldn’t quite look her in the eyes – he had no idea what he looked like, right now. Judging by her expression, it wasn’t good.

“Stephanie,” he said, his voice rasping. He swallowed and tried again. “I’m not feeling very well today, maybe you could- “

“No,” Stephanie interrupted hastily, stepping closer, her voice frail and panicked - she sounded like a child. “That is – I mean – I need you to come with me, Sportacus, you need to come with me- someone’s in trouble- “

“Stephanie- “ Íþróttaálfurinn felt her small hands closing around his wrist, tugging him, nausea washing over him. “Stephanie, I’m sorry, I can’t, not right now- “

“It’s- “ and Stephanie paused, before she continued, her voice wavering. “It’s Glanni. He’s the one who’s in trouble.”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned to look at her, finally – her eyes meeting his steadily, her mouth a thin, desperate line – and he stood up slowly.

“It’s Glanni,” he repeated hoarsely.

“Yes, that’s right – and you have to- “

Íþróttaálfurinn was out the door before she could finish her sentence – into the blindingly white, snowy street, cold air hitting his face, sobering him up. He could hear Stephanie calling his name behind him, but he needed this, he’d missed this – his muscles coming back to life as he took the first few running steps, and all he could think of was Glanni, that stupid idiot had probably gotten himself mixed in something the moment he’d stepped out of the house-

He leapt, he soared through the air, and landed.

The ground suddenly gave in underneath him: and he plummeted, down into the waiting darkness.

The last thing he heard, before he could recall no more and everything disappeared, was Stephanie, screaming.

Chapter Text

For the longest time, the world swayed in some halfway state of existence, shadows moving in the edges of his vision, voices speaking without words – before some things clicked into place, one by one.

The stale stench of cigarettes. A soft clink of something metallic. Cold, hard concrete, underneath him.

Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t feel – or more precisely, he couldn’t sense anything properly. That was his first thought, before he even opened his eyes, that lack of something that he couldn’t put his finger on. His head hurt – he could remember, vaguely, landing into the sewers, and dark figures coming out of the shadows.

He really felt – dulled, nauseous and weak. Gritty. It was strangely familiar.

Slowly, gradually, Íþróttaálfurinn became aware that he was wrapped in chains.

Iron.

He opened his eyes.

The light was dim, but the space was enormous – high, dusty windows, long stretches of an empty floor, damp cardboard boxes sitting in the distance, stray cans littered all over the place. Íþróttaálfurinn turned his head – somewhere, to his left, loomed a strange and ominous metal machine, a contraption with an angry grimacing face, if you looked at it with your eyes squinted. He felt little jolt of recognition there – and with the place in general, now that memories were clicking back to place.

The factory. Glanni’s canned food scheme. Powder. Whatever it had been. And the disgusting, infernal machine that Íþróttaálfurinn had once turned off with great satisfaction – he hadn’t even thought about what’d happened to all of that. By the looks of it, the place had simply been shut down, locked up and abandoned.

Well, almost abandoned.

There was a soft whimper to his right. Íþróttaálfurinn turned his head, wincing when spots danced in his vision, catching a glimpse of something pink, before Stephanie turned her face up towards him – the sight of her here, with him, made his heart jump into his throat.

She was tied up too – by the looks of it, unharmed, although her face was streaked with tears, and there was an unpleasantly dirty gag over her mouth. When she saw Íþróttaálfurinn looking at her, she squirmed, letting out a muffled squeak: her face lit up with such relief it was like looking into the sun.

“Stephanie,” Íþróttaálfurinn rasped out, swallowing, alarmed by how weak his voice sounded – his throat felt like sandpaper, and he was uncomfortably aware of his own tongue. He tried again. “Stephanie – is Glanni really in trouble?”

She looked at him with wide, worried eyes, and then shook her head gingerly. Íþróttaálfurinn exhaled shakily, feeling – despite everything, despite their current predicament – briefly relieved.

“So you were just – trying to get me out of the house?”

She nodded, blinking rapidly, and turned her gaze away. Íþróttaálfurinn took another, steadying breath, the iron turning him sluggish, and then said, as softly and gently as he could: “It’s okay. This isn’t your fault.”

Stephanie sniffed very quietly, bowing her head towards her knees. Íþróttaálfurinn opened his mouth, about to say more, when a heavy, grating sound echoed throughout the factory.

Almost at the other side of the wide, dusty space, the floor shifted, before the manhole cover was pushed to the side, and out climbed a man in a dirty overcoat – and then a second, and then a third one. As they watched, the three men, once back on the surface, bent over in neatly choreographed coughing fits, wheezing and spitting onto the floor.

“Rough climb?” Íþróttaálfurinn called out hoarsely, shifting, testing the chains that refused to budge. Almost at once, the attention was on him – and the men approached. One of them was big and burly, while the second one, in juxtaposition, was almost hilariously skinny and long-limbed – and the third one was stout and short, squinting at Íþróttaálfurinn nastily. All three of them were dressed the same, in long coats that looked like they’d been a particular colour a lifetime ago but could now only be described as unwashed – strangely cut half-masks over their eyes, which turned their faces inhuman and grotesque.

“Look who’s finally awake!” the big one bellowed, almost jovially. “And here we were thinking we’d be entertaining the lil missy all on her own again.”

“Huh! She hasn’t liked the stories we’ve been telling so far,” the skinny one hissed softly.

The short one chortled. “We had to gag her, on account of the screaming.”

Next to him, Stephanie sniffed again, barely audible.

Íþróttaálfurinn looked at their captors, silently, for a long moment, before he finally spoke – tempering the white-hot fury in his chest. “Well, now you have me. You don’t have to resort to bullying a little girl anymore.”

The big man burst into a deep belly-laughter, while the two others looked decidedly displeased.

“You don’t recognize us, huh?” the skinny one asked, rubbing the flaky skin on his wrist, his sharp shoulders hunched. “Haven’t you realized who you’re dealing with yet, Sportacus? Huh?”

“Cowards?” suggested Íþróttaálfurinn. “The dredges of society? The itty bitty chainsmoking committee?”

“We’re the terrifying Mayhemtown Gang!” the short one snapped. All three of them held up their fists, suddenly.

“Mayhemtown Gang!” they barked in unison, their voices echoing in the factory.

“The what now?” Íþróttaálfurinn said blankly, when the last bit of the echoes died down.

The big one stopped chortling, casting an unamused glance down at Íþróttaálfurinn. “The Mayhemtown Gang,” he enunciated. “You know. You’ve dealt with us before! You’ve put us in prison!”

“I’m,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, “I’m sorry. I just. You three don’t ring any bells for me. I’m sorry, I’m usually good with names and faces.”

The three criminals looked at each other, and then at Íþróttaálfurinn. He tried to shrug, despite the chains.

There was a sort of awkward pause.

“I deal with a lot of people?” Íþróttaálfurinn offered. “I mean, most of the time I only remember the actually successful criminals.”

“Right, fellas,” the big one said grimly. “He’s making fun of us. Let’s see how long he can keep cracking jokes. You see – you might not remember us, Sportacus, but we remember you.”

“And we don’t like you,” the short one sneered.

“Really?” Íþróttaálfurinn shifted inside the chains. “I couldn’t have guessed. You’re very subtle about it.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t!” the short one snapped.

“Don’t what? Wash regularly?”

“What?”

“I’m insinuating that you smell bad,” Íþróttaálfurinn said.

“Right, okay, that’s it- “ the short one started, rolling up his sleeves, clearly the one suffering from some unchecked aggression. His gang-mates hurried to restrain him, nearly wrenching him off his feet. Íþróttaálfurinn, personally, thought it was a bit of an overkill.

“Easy, Ketill,” the big one rumbled. “We’ve got things to do, remember? Putting the kangaroo out of his misery comes later. After we’ve got the ransom.”

“What ransom?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked suspiciously. The three crooks looked at each other again, and chuckled, unpleasantly.

“Well, see here, the thing is- “ the big one started. “Since Glanni’s gone, and now we’ve managed to nab you, Lazytown’s pretty much ours.”

“The Mayhemtown Gang’s gonna become the Lazytown Gang,” the skinny one leered. “How about that, huh?”

“Right. And we’re gonna get a big ransom for you and the girlie here – and then deliver your corpse to the mayor when the time comes. That should put us on the map, eh, fellas? A bit of notoriety?”

The two others cheered, and then immediately spent several minutes coughing.

“The girlie- “ the short one wheezed, “we’ll put down in the sewers, where no one’ll find her. I mean, we’re not monsters.”

Íþróttaálfurinn bared his teeth, digging his weakened heels on the floor. “Leave her out of this! She hasn’t done anything to you!”

“Well, she bit me,” the big one said mildly.

“She kicked me pretty hard,” the short one said. “I got a bruise.”

“Aside from that!” Íþróttaálfurinn snapped, feeling a burst of pride for Stephanie, currently curling against his side, despite everything. “She’s just a child. Can’t you just return her, after her ransom has been paid?”

The three criminals looked at each other once more, as if engaged in some silent communication behind their masks.

“Nah,” the skinny one said eventually. The big, burly one loomed over them both, his unwashed, unshaven face contorting into a truly unpleasant grin.

“We’re going to make you sorry for underestimating us,” he said, his deep voice soft. “Oh yes. We’re going to make sure you never hop or jump or flip, ever again. In fact, if we’re in the mood for it, we might just cripple you and take you back to Mayhemtown. See how you like meeting our friends.”

“Lots of people remember you,” the short one said, sneering.

Íþróttaálfurinn looked at the three criminals evenly, not saying anything.

“Not so cocky now,” the skinny one said, leaning in, “huh?”

Next to him, Stephanie whimpered softly. Íþróttaálfurinn felt the muscles in his jaw clench – he wanted nothing more than to reach out and take her away from this place, but he couldn’t move – he could barely struggle, the iron singing its deafening song.

“Come on, fellas,” the big one said, gesturing. He made his way to a crooked table, picking up a piece of paper. “Let’s go deliver that letter. And then, when we come back- “ he turned to Íþróttaálfurinn, smirking. “Well. Let’s just say that if your lil crystal wasn’t going nuts before – it will then.”

*

Somewhere outside, as the day grew darker, it started to snow. The factory was slowly getting colder and colder.

Íþróttaálfurinn sat in heavy silence for a long while, guilt churning in the pit of his stomach, staring at the gaudy, colourfully labelled can lying a few feet away. The last parting laugh of the Mayhemtown Gang seemed to echo in the empty corners of the factory, despite the fact that they must’ve left more than an hour ago – maybe even longer than that.

Abruptly, he shook himself, desperate anger flaring for a moment as he squirmed. The chains clinked uselessly – his arms felt weak, pliant, as he jerked around, growling under his breath.

Next to him, Stephanie stirred, and then turned to look at him, letting out a soft, questioning sound. Íþróttaálfurinn slumped, panting quietly, hating the way he felt exhausted just from that. He wondered if this was how humans felt – tied to the ground, deaf to the way the world moved around them – and then felt guilty. Humans might’ve been different, but they were no worse. They had photographs.

He suddenly wondered what Glanni was doing right now and felt like there was something in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “This is all my fault.”

Stephanie made another soft sound, leaning in, her shoulder nudging against Íþróttaálfurinn’s side. He turned to look at her – her face pale in the dim light, her eyes red-rimmed but dry – and felt fiercely protective.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he whispered. “No matter what happens. You’re being so brave.”

Stephanie looked at him silently. Íþróttaálfurinn looked away – unable to bear the scrutiny as he continued to speak.

“I’ve made a mess of things. In more ways than one.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I shouldn’t even – I shouldn’t even be telling you these things.” He looked at Stephanie briefly.

She shrugged, and Íþróttaálfurinn’s mouth curled, briefly, mirthlessly.

“I – like Glanni,” he said, very softly, feeling like some awkward schoolboy. “I don’t know why- or, that is. I have a lot of reasons.” He looked down, staring at his boots. “Not all of them what you’d expect from Sportacus, I’d wager," he said dully. "Not very- not very heroic at all.”

Stephanie was, unsurprisingly, quiet. Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t want to risk seeing what kind of expression she was wearing.

“Not that it matters anymore,” he continued, suddenly feeling incredibly tired. “He thinks it’s all – a joke. Which I guess it is. It wouldn’t work, not the way we are. I don’t even know where he is right now.”

Stephanie made a loud sound, as if trying to speak, a word Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t quite make out, and he looked down at her, only to find her staring up at him urgently.

“What? What is it?”

Stephanie made a different sound and exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes.

“Right,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, smiling weakly. “Too much information. I probably shouldn’t be talking about this with you. Right now. Or, uh, ever. Sorry.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, and then leaned her head against his arm wearily. Íþróttaálfurinn ducked his head down towards her, swallowing again.

“Wriggle your toes and fingers,” he ordered softly. “To keep the blood flowing. It’s getting colder.”

Stephanie didn’t look up – but Íþróttaálfurinn could hear the faint shuffle, in the dark, as she did as she was told.

“We’ll find a way,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, staring into the growing shadows. "There's always a way." He didn’t believe a word he was saying. He hoped Stephanie couldn’t hear that.

The snow continued to fall outside in silence. Something small and furry scurried across the floor. Íþróttaálfurinn leaned towards Stephanie, and tried to think.

*

He woke up to the grating sound of the manhole cover being moved, jolting awake with a nasty shock. The windows were bathed in the weak, blue light just before sunrise – Stephanie’s head was still resting against his arm, and she let out a weak, soft sound as she stirred awake.

The Mayhemtown Gang climbed back to the surface in a cacophony of coughing, cheering and an almost unbearable, nearly tangible stench of tobacco and booze.

“Oh, fellas!” the big one hooted, dusting his coat uselessly. “Oh, fellas, fellas, are we at the top of the hill now!”

“Wakey wakey!” the short one crooned. He was dragging a lead pipe in his wake. “Avon calling!”

“Not so high and mighty now, huh?” the skinny one jeered, as the three of them approached. “Your fat little mayor’s terrified for his little hero and his big strong niece.” He paused. “I mean- “

“Go on, you were doing okay,” Íþróttaálfurinn rasped out. The skinny one turned cross-eyed in his confusion.

“The mayor,” the big one growled, leaning down to peer at Íþróttaálfurinn, “is gonna pay whatever we ask for you two. Sucks to be him, eh? Although I guess it’d suck to be you two even more-“

“Can I do it now?!” the short one piped up, nearly vibrating with frustration, his voice rising in pitch. He was practically hopping up and down. “Can I do it? Can I do it now?”

The big one chuckled, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Ketill here’s got this pipe,” he said. “And we told him he could use that pipe once we got the business out of the way. He’s very eager.”

“I can see that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said flatly. He eyed them both up and down. “You know you’re supposed to keep your dogs on a leash, right?”

The big man’s grin melted away. The other two fell silent, staring at Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Right,” the big one said, finally, his voice rumbling and nasty. “Have at it, Ketill. Break his fucking kneecaps.”

The short man cackled, launching forward. “Yes! Finally!”

Several things happened at once.

Stephanie let out a terrified, muffled howl; Íþróttaálfurinn tensed up, baring his teeth as he prepared for the inevitable pain; the short man called Ketill stepped up, swinging his pipe like a baseball bat, with a nasty grin on his face, raising it high above his head…

And the doors of the factory flew open with a deafening sound.

Early morning sun nearly blinded them all, as it reflected on the freshly fallen snow outside, turning the figure standing in the doorway into a black silhouette – that is, until he stepped inside.

“Hello, boys,” Glanni purred, his mouth curling coldly. “Did you miss me?”

*

“Glanni Glaepur!”

It was bizarre, Íþróttaálfurinn reflected, how many people seemed to be in the habit of gasping Glanni’s name in perfect unison.

For a moment Glanni stood, clearly enjoying the stunned expressions of his colleagues, before he seemed inclined to say anything.

“The one and only,” he drawled, unperturbed as he walked further into the factory. He kicked a few cans away, wrinkling his nose. “You guys didn’t bother to clean up the place, then?”

The Mayhemtown Gang seemed conflicted – the big one was staring at Glanni as if he’d stolen the moon and the stars, the skinny one was uncertain – and the short one was, if Íþróttaálfurinn could judge, actually quite peeved under his mask.

“You, you know how we are with cleaning and such,” the skinny one said, nervously. “You know, we didn’t think you were-“

“And what have we here,” Glanni said, ignoring him as he came closer – and he must’ve seen them already at the door, he must’ve, but he seemed to feigning surprise, putting his hands on his hips, his tone lazy and entertained. “The big bad Sportacus– and some pink brat. Have you boys been dabbling in kidnapping again?” he directed his last words to the big one, his tone playful as his eyes narrowed. The other man took off his cap, fiddling with it.

“Just a lil, Glanni, just a little bit – we, we actually just sent off a ransom note for these two- “

“Haven’t you been enterprising,” Glanni purred, reaching out – patting the big man on the cheek lightly. “Why, this is just the kind of present I would’ve hoped for upon my return.”

“But this isn’t-“ the skinny one started.

“Yes,” the big man interrupted. “I mean to say – we’re glad to have you on board, Glanni! Ain’t that right, fellas? Ketill, Einar?”

The two remaining gang members muttered something akin to agreement. Glanni beamed, and turned to Íþróttaálfurinn, and for the first time since the night he’d walked past Íþróttaálfurinn and out of his house – their eyes met.

He hated the jolt in the pit of his stomach. He hated Glanni at that moment, gazing down at him with his eyes flat and inscrutable, absent smile lingering on his lips, because he recognized that expression – this was the Glanni he’d first met in a prison cell, this was the Glanni who’d smiled and joked as he watched Íþróttaálfurinn seethe uselessly at the other side of the bars – and it seemed, at that moment when he was tired and aching and cold, to be the only one who’d been real.

Glanni looked at him for a moment longer, and then turned away, as if dismissing him.

“He looks relatively unharmed,” Glanni commented airily.

“Well, he wasn’t going to be,” Ketill piped up, a little sullenly, lifting up his pipe. “Was going to bust his knees with this. Just now. Before you – before you showed up.”

“Oh, you were going to bust his knees with that?” Glanni repeated, honey-toned, as if talking to a child. “With that thing? Really?”

“Yes,” Ketill replied warily. “I was going to- “

“You idiot!” Suddenly Glanni was snarling, wheeling around, towering over the short man. “Imbecile! You don’t harm the merchandise until you get the money! How many times do I have to tell you?! Give me that- “ and he reached out, wrenching the pipe from Ketill’s hands, sneering at him. “I have to do everything around here, as per usual.”

“But-!”

“Listen to Glanni, Ketill,” the big one rumbled.

“Yeah,” Einar piped in, although he looked uncertain. Glanni favoured the big one with a smile, before he turned to Íþróttaálfurinn, tapping the pipe against his palm thoughtfully.

“Now, Sportaflop, aren’t you glad there’s someone with brains in here?”

“I don’t know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said hoarsely, watching Glanni, feeling curiously empty. “I’ll tell you if I see them.”

Glanni continued to smile as he lowered the pipe – and then abruptly stepped forward, backhanding Íþróttaálfurinn casually. Stephanie let out a muffled yelp, flinching against his side as pain exploded in the side of his face, leaving Íþróttaálfurinn blinking and gasping.

“Observe,” Glanni said silkily. “This is how you rough up your prisoners.”

He backhanded Íþróttaálfurinn again, with great flourish, laughing under his breath. Íþróttaálfurinn bowed his head down, panting hard, and spit out a bit of blood – he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, the tangy, metallic taste lingering on his tongue.

The Mayhemtown Gang was chuckling, although Ketill sounded a little forced.

Glanni reached down, his fingers hooking under Íþróttaálfurinn’s jaw, forcing his head up, up, to meet Glanni’s eyes again – and Íþróttaálfurinn stared, his face still stinging, as Glanni leaned down, until their faces were so close he could count Glanni's individual lashes – and then Glanni pressed a very deliberate, sticky kiss against Íþróttaálfurinn’s left cheek, his mouth lingering there for just a second.

He felt like his heart had just stuttered and skipped a beat.

“A little something for him to remember me by,” Glanni said airily, huskily, pulling back while Íþróttaálfurinn was still gulping for breath. “I mean, not that he’s going to have very long, am I right, boys?”

He wasn’t looking at Íþróttaálfurinn anymore, basking in the forced laughter of the Mayhemtown Gang – but the warmth of his lips was still there, on Íþróttaálfurinn’s skin.

“But why does Glanni get to hurt him?” Ketill whined. “It’s not like we’re going to let him live, right? Why does it matter if I break his legs?”

“Yeah,” Einar joined in, glancing at Glanni uncertainly. “I mean – doesn’t really make sense, does it?”

Glanni let out a long-suffering martyred sigh, the kind he used to make when Íþróttaálfurinn tried to get him to do the dishes.

“All right, I’ll explain this once more- “

Íþróttaálfurinn blinked, his attention stolen away by movement at the other side of the factory. Something – bigger than a rat – scurried behind the stack of boxes just as he turned his head.

He suddenly realized that Glanni had left the factory doors wide open as he’d come in. And no one had been watching the entrance.

“Where have you been anyway, Glanni?” Ketill was saying, his tone accusatory. “We were all set to break you out and then you flat-out vanished. Were you staying with someone?”

“Yeah!” Einar echoed. “You don’t know anyone in Lazytown, who did you stay with, huh?”

“With- “ Glanni’s eyes never even flickered in Íþróttaálfurinn’s direction. “With a friend. Sheesh, boys, why the attitude? It’s me!”

“You’ve always treated us like your lackeys,” Ketill growled. “You took my pipe. What friend?”

Íþróttaálfurinn could see, in the shadows, a flash of something blue, something yellow – a tuft of red hair before it ducked under a box. He suddenly felt tension ripple through his body as he tried to take a slow, steadying breath, so as not to give himself or anyone else away – turning to stare at Glanni, watching the miniscule, tense twitch of his mouth.

“Fellas,” the big man rumbled, lifting up his hands. “Let’s all just settle down – I’m sure Glanni’s got an explanation- “

There was definitely movement, Íþróttaálfurinn was sure of it now. Someone was moving at the other end of the factory. 

“He’s always got an explanation!” Ketill snapped. “You know what, I bet he’s partnered with someone else! That’s why he’s trying to keep the prisoners in one piece – so he and his buddies can cash in!”

“I’m with Ketill! I’m done listening to Glanni!” Einar squeaked. He marched over to Íþróttaálfurinn and Stephanie. “Boris, toss me the keys! I’m taking the girlie down to the sewers, to begin with- “

Glanni’s head whipped towards the big man called Boris as if he’d scented blood, just as Einar reached out, fisting a handful of Stephanie’s pink hair and pulling callously: she let out a terrified, muffled cry.

“No!”

Trixie lunged from her hiding place, snarling like some wild animal, like a tiny avenging angel, as she leapt at Einar, nearly tackling him to the ground in her fury. The poor man let out a terrified yowl as her teeth sank into her arm, staggering back.

“Get it off me!” he screamed. “Somebody get it off me!” Ketill hurried to help him while Boris stood dumbfounded, and Glanni – Glanni had somehow ended up next to Boris.

“You said she wouldn’t be hurt!” Trixie spat, kicking and struggling as Ketill yanked her back, her teeth bared, panting hard. “You said she’d be okay, Glanni!”

“Glanni?” Boris echoed, turning towards him incredulously. “What’s all this? What is she saying?”

Glanni made a face and then took a step back, holding up a key, shrugging elegantly as if giving up on pretense. “Well, for starters, I just picked your pocket. Keep-away!”

And he turned – throwing the key across the factory, where Jives stumbled out from behind the boxes and caught it with a triumphant hoot.

Boris’ face contorted into a furious, betrayed grimace, before he stepped forward, catching the lapels of Glanni’s suit, swinging his fist back – Íþróttaálfurinn winced, feeling something wild and violent coil in his chest as he watched Boris punch Glanni, the other man’s head snapping back painfully.

“Get the key!” Boris snarled. “Catch that brat!”

Ketill was still struggling with Trixie, so Einar lunged in a half-jog towards Jives, his arms spread like a scarecrow, growling under his breath. Jives’ eyes widened before he took a step back – and suddenly Stingy was running across the factory floor, catching the key that had just flown right above Einar’s head.

“Keep-away!” Stingy called out gleefully as Einar whirled around in confusion.

“What the- “ Boris let out an incensed sound. “Ketill, help him!” He caught the scruff of Trixie’s shirt, still holding onto Glanni with his other hand. “I have these two, get ‘em!”

Pixel suddenly lunged from his hiding place, just as Einar had almost caught up with Stingy, and caught the key Stingy tossed to him.

“Keep-away!” he called out, tossing the key to Jives, just as Ketill started running after him. The whole factory floor exploded into chaos, two of the Mayhemtown Gang trying desperately to keep up, stumbling and nearly bumping into each other as the children continued tossing the key back and forth. Boris stared, one massive hand in Trixie’s shirt and the other in Glanni’s suit, his mouth hanging open.

Glanni coughed, grinning at Boris. “I know, right? They just keep popping up! Getting underfoot, foiling your plans- I feel you, I had the exact same problem- “

“Get back here, you- “ Ketill snarled, nearly managing to snatch Jives’ collar before the boy leapt over some boxes, and threw the key he was holding to Pixel.

“Just more and more of them- “ Glanni grimaced, when Boris’ grip got tighter, and then beamed up at him. “And then there was the big guy.”

“What guy?”

Pixel blew a raspberry at the man making a futile grab for him, before he threw the key again, Einar nearly running into a wall in the process. Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t help it – the laughter bubbled deep from his belly and past his lips.

“What guy, Glanni?” Boris demanded, shaking him lightly.

Einar finally managed to snatch Stingy, who turned out to be empty-handed.

Ketill, in turn, had also caught up with Pixel and Jives, neither of whom seemed to possess the key anymore. Both men turned to look at Boris for guidance.

Íþróttaálfurinn suddenly felt a small hand press against his arm: he heard the tiniest rattle behind his back, like something inserted into a lock, before the chains became – considerably looser.

Ziggy’s head popped up on his left, beaming up at him.

Glanni laughed, looking terribly pleased with himself. He nodded towards Íþróttaálfurinn.

“This guy.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stood up slowly, shaking the chains onto the floor, flexing his stiff arms.

He took a deep breath, feeling life flow back into his veins – feeling the whole town, his town, hum and pulse around him, the magic returning to him like a tidal wave – tickling his fingertips, buzzing in his ears, singing in his heart. At once, he was powerful again. He looked around in the room. The Mayhemtown Gang had frozen into place, as if already feeling the change in the atmosphere.

Íþróttaálfurinn smiled.

“Run,” he suggested.

Einar let go of Stingy.

“Actually, we’re not that big on runni- “

That was as far as he got to.

*

Later, there were cops – the real police, not just the helpfully unhelpful Office Obtuse, all the way from Mayhemtown, all too happy to take in their criminals. As it turned out, the Mayhemtown Gang was more than eager to go back to prison.

The cars were still parked outside the factory, blue lights flashing. Townspeople were starting to gather to the scene – Stephanie was flocked by her parents and her uncle, as well as her whole entourage of friends, currently being interviewed by the police. She knew more about the events than Íþróttaálfurinn did, anyway – and he felt like he needed a moment to breathe. Once the anger had dissipated, once everything had been resolved – he just felt tired.

He was probably going to have a stern discussion with the children about the excessive use of violence. There had been entirely too much cheering. Trixie had started taking notes.

Glanni stood next to him, by the factory entrance, where they’d been left standing due to the fact that everyone had started fussing over the children – shifting from foot to foot, his breath fogging in the cold air. Íþróttaálfurinn was – painfully aware of his presence, but so far, neither of them had uttered a word to each other.

“Kidnapped by the Mayhemtown Gang,” Glanni said abruptly. “Now that’s embarrassing. I’m never going to let you live that one down.”

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed, staring at the snow. He could see, from the corner of his eye, Glanni looking at him.

“Seriously, how did they even manage it? Did they lure you under a basket propped up with a stick? Was a carrot involved?”

Íþróttaálfurinn inhaled shakily, still not answering – not really capable at slipping back to a comfortable banter at the moment.

Glanni let out an odd, frustrated sound, and then turned to him.

“All right – I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

Íþróttaálfurinn blinked, finally turning to Glanni.

The other man was staring at him with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment, his teeth bared awkwardly. There was bruising on his face, where Boris had hit him. He didn’t seem to care, even though it probably hurt like hell.

“Say that again,” Íþróttaálfurinn said hoarsely, something shifting inside him, like a crack in a glacier. Glanni rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, slow and deliberate, his gaze flickering away from Íþróttaálfurinn. “For, you know. A lot of things. Consider this a blanket statement. I’m sorry. I’m – I do know how to apologize, and I’m doing that now.”

“You went away,” Íþróttaálfurinn said slowly, staring at Glanni’s face, drinking in the unattractive curl of his lips, the tilt of his chin, the mascara starting to turn into goop in the corners of his eyes. He was beautiful.

“I did that,” Glanni said, glancing at him warily. “And then, you know. I came back.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why? Because I'm crazy - because you’re - because I wasn’t about to let you, or Pinky – are you seriously asking me why?” Glanni bared his teeth, something desperate in his eyes. “You know why. You know. Íþróttaálfurinn.”

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed, and then: “You put children in danger. My children.”

“They offered!” Glanni said, a bit heatedly. “Look, I couldn’t just waltz in on my own, I needed someone and they- “

“Come here,” Íþróttaálfurinn rasped out and stepped closer. Glanni’s jaw clicked shut as he eyed Íþróttaálfurinn – and then stepped closer, lifting his hands slowly.

Íþróttaálfurinn reached out, his hands finding Glanni’s skinny hips, settling there – and Glanni took off his cap.

“What- “ Íþróttaálfurinn started.

“It’s a tradition,” Glanni said, a tiniest, intense tremor in his voice. He leaned in.

Their lips met – both of them chilled by the cold weather, but the inside of Glanni’s mouth was warm – and for a moment Íþróttaálfurinn simply melted against him, kissing Glanni while something in his core shuddered and relaxed.

When they pulled back, Glanni was putting Íþróttaálfurinn’s cap on his own head.

“Ugh,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like sweat.”

“You know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said mildly, hoarsely, “you didn’t take my hat off the last time we kissed.”

Glanni made a face. “That’s because I didn’t have a chance – you just came at me like a rhino in heat- “

Íþróttaálfurinn opened his mouth to argue for a better metaphor, or at least a different animal, when the mayor suddenly picked his way past the crowd and made his way over to them – so instead he stepped hastily away from Glanni.

He realized only afterwards that Glanni was still wearing his hat. The mayor, at least, didn’t seem to take any notice as he came to a halt before them, wiping his brow worriedly.

“Goodness!” Meanswell exclaimed. “What a day – and what a day you must’ve had, Sportacus, I can’t even imagine – Stephanie’s told me everything, of course- I can’t thank you enough.”

“I just wish it had never happened,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, truthfully.

“As do I, as do I- “ the mayor finally tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, as his eyes wandered to Glanni. “And, ah – here we have Glanni Glaepur- “

Glanni’s face was frozen in a grimace as he waited for the end of that sentence.

Íþróttaálfurinn felt, once again, one of those moments coming over him – those moments where all plans flew out the window, and he was riding on a wave of pure, sweet impulse.

“You mean my secret operative,” he said briskly, keeping his face straight. The mayor blinked, staring at him.

“A secret- ”

“That’s right, sir,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, his heart pounding in his ears. He could see Glanni staring at him as well, as flabbergasted as Meanswell. “You see – as I went to talk to him, weeks ago, I found out he wanted some way to make up for the crimes he committed in Lazytown. So Mr. Glaepur agreed to – help me, to catch the extremely dangerous and notorious Mayhemtown Gang.” He paused. “Despite the probability of facing great personal harm, too,” he added hastily.

Mayor Meanswell stared. “So he – assisted you in all of this?”

“He did,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, meeting the mayor’s eyes steadily. “Without him, Stephanie and I probably wouldn’t be here right now. If I’m a hero – so is he, today.”

The mayor turned to look at Glanni, who just about managed to close his mouth on time, offering the man his most demure, humble smile, only slightly forced.

“Well then,” the mayor said weakly. “I guess this explains why he disappeared from the cell – but you really should’ve told me before, Sportacus,” he added, sternly.

“I know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, actually genuinely apologetic. “I wanted to, sir. It was just – a very sensitive operation.”

The mayor seemed a little cheered up by such intricate and important going-ons in his town, at least. He glanced at Glanni again, calculative.  

“I suppose – I could consider leniency for your sentence, Mr. Glaepur. All things considered. Shall we say that you’re – currently on probation? Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Glanni glanced at Íþróttaálfurinn, and licked his lips, looking like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“I think so,” he said.

“Excellent,” the mayor said, smiling absently – only now noticing the cap Glanni was wearing, but this merely elicited a confused frown, before he turned back to Íþróttaálfurinn. “I think – I’m going to go see if Stephanie needs anything else. Will you fill me in further, later on?”

Íþróttaálfurinn resisted the urge to salute out of sheer relief. “Of course.”

The mayor offered them another one of his kindly smiles, before turning to return to the crowd. They watched him go in silence. Then Glanni turned to Íþróttaálfurinn.

“You,” he said slowly, wide-eyed, “just lied to him.”

“I know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, grimacing. “But what choice did I have? We- “

“That was so hot,” Glanni said hoarsely.

Íþróttaálfurinn blinked, taken aback.  

“Oh,” he said, and then, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth: “Oh. Well, all right then.” He paused. “Come here?”  

Once again, Glanni obliged – and they ended up sort of comfortably close, their bodies slotting against one another, Glanni’s arm draped over his shoulders.

“I’ve misjudged you,” Glanni said, peering down at his nose at Íþróttaálfurinn. “I mean, that was just – wow. Wow. You know, I think I might actually let you, you know. Date me. I think we can make this happen.”

“I’m glad,” Íþróttaálfurinn said a little dryly, not very bothered. He felt indescribably calm, holding Glanni. “You do realize, though, that by elven law, since we’ve already kissed thrice we’re technically married?”

Glanni froze.

After a moment, Íþróttaálfurinn started snickering. Glanni huffed, flicking the back of his head.

“Funny. Very funny. You know, lying can go too far sometimes.”

“Your eyes were nearly bulging out of your head. Very attractive.”

“Some things are going to have to change,” Glanni announced, clearly deciding to change the subject. “For example. The bed situation.”

“What about it?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked warily.

“You know what I’m talking about, Sportalover.”

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed. “I’ll get the heart-shaped one down from the attic as soon as possible. It’s going to need thorough cleaning too.”

“And the flamingos,” Glanni said smugly. “They’re going to sleep with us.”

“You mean with you. Because I’m never sleeping again.”

“And- “ Glanni hesitated, wrinkling his nose at Íþróttaálfurinn. “There’s going to be other things. We’ll fight. Don’t be mistaken just because you’re awestruck at the moment. I’m not- ah, as perfect as I seem.”

Íþróttaálfurinn looked at Glanni, and then took his cold hand in his, carefully. He could hear the children approaching – the sound automatically inciting tender joy in his heart, only multiplied with the way Glanni was looking at him, like Íþróttaálfurinn was something important: like Íþróttaálfurinn was something he didn’t want to let go.

He squeezed Glanni’s hand, gingerly.

“There’s always a way,” he said.

The air around them turned fogged and warm, their breaths mingling together and rising up high above them, just as the sun was really starting to shine.

A new day began.

Chapter Text

“What the Sportacus is that?”

Íþróttaálfurinn walked in just in time to hear his name taken in vain. He stopped at the doorway, observing the scene with no little amount of that odd, tentative tenderness that he’d found himself feeling more and more as of late.

He’d been up since the early hours of the morning, of course – out with the children, teaching the whole school how to ice-skate. The kids were now gathered in his living room, on the couches and the floor, sprawled around heavy-limbed, their cheeks still red from the cold, their hair tousled from hours outside all bundled up and skidding on slippery ice.

Glanni, as had been his habit as of late, had just gotten out of bed – still dressed in his bathrobe, not yet decked in makeup. He was slouching among the children almost comfortably, cradling a cup of cocoa, with only the faintest sneer on his face.

“It’s a Christmas tree,” Stephanie said primly. “Or it will be, once it’s decorated.”

“Oh, one of those. Yes, I’ve seen them. You know, in passing.”

“In other people’s homes, I assume, while you were disarming their alarms,” Íþróttaálfurinn said dryly as he stepped into the room, putting more cups on the table. “Help yourself to the marshmallows, kids.”

He felt only faintly nauseous for saying that. Progress.

“I did say in passing,” Glanni said unrepentant, reaching for the bag of the sugary horrors.

“He already had like ten,” Trixie reported. “While you were in the kitchen.”

“Don’t be a snitch, kid,” Glanni said, or tried to say – his voice was a tad muffled because he’d just stuffed five marshmallows into his mouth.

Trixie scowled at Glanni, and then proceeded to grab a fistful of marshmallows. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t really sure what had transpired between the two of them, but Trixie had seemed to have settled for some kind of spiteful combativeness, which appeared to work for them both.

For some reason Íþróttaálfurinn was starting to get the impression that she actually liked Glanni, in some bizarre way.

“Oh, by the way,” Stephanie said, dropping a single marshmallow into her hot chocolate. “My uncle told me to tell you, Glanni. He’s decided to pardon you.”

“What?” Glanni said incredulously, spitting bits of marshmallow as he sat up straight. “He told a nine-year-old to pass that message to me? That’s preposterous. This town is ridiculous. No wonder it was so easy to con you all.”

“I’m eleven,” Stephanie frowned. Trixie passed her another marshmallow, consolingly.

“Like you’re so much better,” Íþróttaálfurinn said mildly, circling around the table and squeezing himself between Glanni and Stingy, putting his arm around Glanni’s shoulders to fit in. And because he felt like it. “What do you even do, besides steal from other people and complain about shoes being too expensive?”

“I do other things!” Glanni complained. “I read the newspaper! I- I fix your hair before you go out in the morning.”

“I wear a hat,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, “and you got up at noon today. When we got back, in fact.”

Glanni huffed, slumping against Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder, because they’d had this conversation before. “It’s not my fault your hat is atrocious, or that I can’t plan even the smallest, simplest little heist anymore without you bristling like I’m planning to assassinate the president-“

The children gasped. Glanni groaned.

“Which I wouldn’t do! I like him!” He paused, and then added, as an afterthought. “And murder is bad. Obviously.”

Íþróttaálfurinn ducked his head towards Glanni. “You could find something else to do,” he murmured.

Glanni made a face at him. “You could let me do what I do best,” he said lowly.

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, and then leaned in, pressing a light kiss against the corner of Glanni’s mouth. The children groaned: just because that was what you did, when adults were in love.

“You could be a mayor,” Ziggy piped up suddenly, so very earnest, turning his face towards Glanni and Íþróttaálfurinn where he was sitting on the floor, cradling a cup of cocoa in his small hands.

“What?” Stingy laughed, and then scoffed. “Mayor Meanswell is already the mayor, Ziggy! Don't be stupid.”

"Don't call Ziggy stupid," Jives exclaimed, reaching out and messing Stingy's hair. 

“Me?” Glanni said, both entertained and bewildered. “Kid, I- think you’re barking up the wrong tree here. Nice try, though.” He tossed Ziggy a marshmallow, who caught it with his mouth. The other kids burst into laughter.

Suddenly Íþróttaálfurinn felt like he was in the precipice of something – something that spanned out into his future like the branches of a tree. He looked at Glanni's profile, and spoke, carefully. 

“Well, why not?” he said.

The children fell silent. Glanni turned to stare at him.

“What?”

“Why shouldn’t you become the mayor?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked – his voice much more careless than he felt, eyeing Glanni. “I think you’d be good at that sort of thing.”

“Me – Ibuprofen, I’m a pure-bred crook.”

“So is a politician.”

Glanni huffed out a laugh, despite his surprise.

“And,” Íþróttaálfurinn continued stubbornly, looking at Stephanie – the idea forming, taking shape as he spoke - a wild idea, perhaps, but an idea nonetheless, “your uncle is talking about retiring, isn’t he? To spend more time with – gardening, was it?”

“Probably to spend more time with Miss Busybody,” Stephanie said, sticking out her tongue.

“Yes, but- “ Glanni started.

“Money and fame,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, turning to him, locking eyes with Glanni. “Isn’t that what you wanted? The mayor gets a nice salary, a nice office with a mahogany table, and, I bet, a nice car if he wants it – not to mention the respect of the citizens. It's everything on the list. You'd get to dress nice, too.”

“It’s not what I do!” Glanni snapped, a little irritated now. "Stop saying 'nice'! And- " The children were following the proceedings with wide eyes. “It’s honest work. I don’t- “

“You’re right,” Íþróttaálfurinn said abruptly, interrupting him. “We weren’t prepared for you, Glanni. This town – our town, is our home, but we’re not exactly prepared for it when the wolf comes in. I can only protect the people- “ he hesitated, and the continued, reluctantly. “I can only protect them to a limit. But you – you know every trick there is. You’re Glanni Glæpur.” He gazed at Glanni, and for a moment his heart was filled with genuine, overwhelming tenderness, even if Glanni looked dumbfounded, even if he was crooked, inside and out. “You’re better than the rest of them put together. Why do you need to compete with them – when you could outwit every single criminal who comes to this town looking for easy prey?”

Glanni stared at him. The children stared at him.

Eventually, it was Stingy who spoke first.

“So,” he said, gingerly. “Does that mean you’ll be actually rich?”

Glanni closed his mouth slowly. He didn’t take his eyes off Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Well, I mean,” he said, a bit hoarsely. “Unless Sportapreacher here is willing to look the other way- “

“I’m not,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He swallowed. “You know I’m not. I’m sorry.”

“Then I guess,” Glanni said slowly, glancing around a bit wildly, “it could be worth a try?”

“Can I do your campaign posters?” Stephanie asked abruptly. Glanni squinted at him.

“You mean should I let a preteen girl with gallons of glitter dictate the way my personal image is presented around the town?” he paused, and then smirked. “Sure, why not? Worked last time.”

“You will be paying her,” Íþróttaálfurinn said sternly.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Glanni said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, the PR campaign I would need to pull alone- “ his eyes abruptly started shining, like they’d done before the furniture auction. He turned to Íþróttaálfurinn helplessly, trying to pretend he wasn’t suddenly a little bit excited at the prospect of pulling it off. “I think I’m rubbing off on you, Ibuprofen.”

Íþróttaálfurinn smirked, just a tad, and leaned in: lowering his voice.

“Not in front the children, Glanni.”

Glanni stared at him, and then tilted his head back, bursting into laughter.

*

A little later – when Stephanie had had the idea to make gingerbread biscuits and Íþróttaálfurinn’s kitchen was slowly turning into a battlefield of flour and sugar and messy, shrieking children – he drew Glanni outside with a flimsy excuse. They stood in the backyard, the day already growing dim, shivering like they’d done that day outside the factory.

Íþróttaálfurinn’s balloon was parked there – filled up again, since he no longer needed to keep such a close watch on the house.

“So,” Glanni said. “I’m not so sure about doing it in that thing, but- “

“We should think about joint Christmas presents,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, and then, “what?”

“What?”

They blinked at each other. Glanni grimaced first, wrinkling his nose.

“Christmas presents?” he asked incredulously. Íþróttaálfurinn arched an eyebrow.

“Sex?”

“Yes, please,” Glanni smirked. Íþróttaálfurinn snorted, sliding an easy arm around him.

“It’s freezing out here,” he said lowly. “And the children are just inside. Sorry.”

Glanni sighed tragically, slumping against him. They stood like that for a moment, and Íþróttaálfurinn marveled the way he could be so still and yet feel so calm – the way Glanni seemed to anchor him into place in the most pleasant way possible.

“Nail-polish,” Glanni said abruptly. Íþróttaálfurinn blinked, and the other man turned his face towards him, doing a sort of awkward half-shrug. “I stole Pinkie’s nail-polish when I was staying with her. We should replace it.”

“Wait,” Íþróttaálfurinn said slowly. “When you were what?”

“Oh, that’s right!” Glanni grinned down at him. “I never mentioned that, did I? After we had our – little spat- “

“You mean when you panicked about commitment so much that you tore me down and bolted out of the house- “

“Right, yes, that- Pinkie smuggled me out of the cold wintery streets and into her closet.” Glanni paused, staring into the middle distance for a moment. “She fed me so much fruit.”

“I didn’t know that,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, a little stunned. “I mean – I’m amazed you didn’t die from starvation.”

“Anyway,” Glanni drawled. “After she didn’t come home one day I figured something was up. And here we are.” He examined his nails, trying to look casual. “Obviously – I owe her at least that much. So since you’re thinking of presents-“

Íþróttaálfurinn stared at him. Then he shifted, crouched down and picked Glanni up.

“Hey!” Glanni yelped. “What’re you- “

“Sex in a basket,” Íþróttaálfurinn grinned. “You were going to say yes, weren’t you?”

Glanni squinted at him, and then pursed his lips. “Maybe.”

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, took a couple of steps back, and then-

“Hup!”

- tossed Glanni up into the basket. The other man kicked as he flew through the air, landing in the basket with an audible thump and some choice curses. Íþróttaálfurinn started untying the knots on the ropes holding the basket down.

“You’ll pay for that!” Glanni called out muffledly, and then dragged himself up to peer at Íþróttaálfurinn over the edge of the basket. He hesitated for a moment. “Hey – you really think we should – that is to say – the whole mayor thing is a good idea?”

Íþróttaálfurinn felt his smile widen, helplessly, as he looked up at Glanni.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he said, grabbing the rope and hauling himself up into the basket, easily, as it started floating up.

Glanni stood, clutching the edge of the basket with his knuckles tight, and Íþróttaálfurinn came closer and pressed against him – the house disappearing somewhere below them, and he’d missed this, he really had, the rooftops stretching out below them, the wide open sky, the distant horizon full of promises. They rose ever higher, and higher, like they could just disappear up into the clouds...

Íþróttaálfurinn suddenly became rather pleasantly aware that Glanni had stuck his hand down Íþróttaálfurinn’s pants. They grinned at each other.

In the end, the cold didn’t pose much of a problem.

*

*

*

“The mayor will see you now.”

Trausti fiddled with his briefcase, flashing a smile at the bored redheaded teenager, probably a seasonal intern, who waved him through without looking up from her phone.

He really admired Lazytown. He’d been genuinely impressed by the cobbled streets warmed in the summer sun, the public vegetable gardens, the children playing outside: not to mention the cheerful, happy citizens who greeted him, a total stranger, like he was a friend. But most of all, he really liked Lazytown, because no one in it had even the faintest of inkling of the kind of reputation Trausti boasted in several other towns.

Oh yes - he would enjoy taking Lazytown to the cleaners.

Mayor Glæpur circled around his table to meet him, and Trausti was momentarily taken aback – the mental image he’d had for a mayor would have called from someone older, someone heavier – golden chains and fatcats and whatnot. But Mayor Glæpur was relatively young – and slim, very slim, and tall, wearing a slightly outrageous but strangely fetching purple suit. The office, too – much grander than he’d expected. Some odd choices here and there. There was a plastic garden flamingo, stuck on a potted plant in the corner, its beady eyes looking like they followed you around the room.

“Mr. Sannleikur,” Mayor Glæpur purred, shaking his hand – and Trausti could not help noticing the absolutely tasteless ring he was sporting, the yellow gemstone probably big enough to be seen from space. He made a mental note of it – the thing could easily disappear into his pocket when they shook hands again in the end of the meeting, and the mayor would be none wiser.

He was ushered into a plush chair, and the mayor took a seat behind his desk. Trausti couldn’t help but stare, just a bit – Glæpur’s smile was absolutely genuine and heartbreakingly naïve, but Trausti  was a little thrown by the eyeshadow.

“You told me you had some kind of a pitch for me,” the mayor prompted after a moment, the corners of his lips twitching. “Regarding – what was it again- “

“Ah,” Trausti shook himself back to the game at hand. “Yes, right! Mayor Glæpur,” he leaned forward, lowering his voice seriously. “We need to have a serious talk about the quality of your air.”

The mayor’s eyes widened worriedly. “We do?”

“Yes!” Trausti announced – opening his briefcase with a click, pulling out the calculator he’d glued a few gears onto. “This is a device of my own making, measuring air pollution – and I’m saddened to inform you that Lazytown is at the verge of a catastrophe. In just a few short years, your citizens will start exhibiting the symptoms, oh, such horrendous symptoms – that is, if you let things continue the way they are right now.”

“My goodness!” Glæpur exclaimed, his eyes round, just as Trausti had expected. “But what can we do?”

“Now, this is where my invention comes in,” Trausti continued. “A new kind of air filter that I have – in fact, let me explain- “ and he launched into his usual spiel, standing up for the full effect. People took him more seriously if he stood and gestured and paced, for whatever reason.

Mayor Glæpur continued to listen attentively – and Trausti had him, he knew he did, just like in the other towns – but there was something here that bothered him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It was something in the general air, like something he'd forgotten, or passed by. 

As he spoke, Glæpur opened the drawer on his desk, pulled out an orange, and started peeling it, nodding his head attentively all the while.

“- which is why, even though it leaves me with nearly no profit, I’m willing to cut a deal with you,” Trausti concluded.

Mayor Glæpur had finished peeling his orange – he carefully arranged the peels in the middle of his desk, before he put the orange back into his drawer, closing it with a little distasteful wrinkle of his nose.

“Uh, sir?” Trausti prompted. The mayor snapped back to attention.

“Heavens!” Mayor Glæpur exclaimed, his brows furrowing with worry, his lips downturned. “I never knew the air quality was deteriorating that badly. I can only thank you, Mr. Sannleikur, for bringing it into my attention – and your amazing generosity in providing the filters for such a low price. If only there were more people like you in the world.”

“Well,” Trausti said, ducking his head on cue, humbly. “I’m here to help, not to make money.”

When he lifted his head again, Mayor Glæpur was still looking at him – leaning his chin on his manicured hands, but the jovial look in his eyes was gone.

His smile was like a knife.

“Is that what you wanted me to say?” Glæpur asked silkily.

Trausti suddenly felt cold.

“I’d give you a B+ for the effort,” Glæpur drawled. “But really. Air filters?” and then looked up. “Sportacus!”

“Maybe- Maybe I should just go- “ Trausti started, gathering his briefcase hastily. He had no idea what was going on, but suddenly it felt like a very good idea to be somewhere else. His instincts, honed by years of lying and cheating, were suddenly screaming at him. 

As he turned, he immediately bumped into a leather-covered, muscular chest. A man with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen peered down at him, flashing a smile.

“Hello!”

"Agh!" Trausti exclaimed eloquently. 

“We have another one,” Mayor Glæpur announced airily. “Air filters, this time. I thought you’d take care of him like the others.”

“You mean, besides the one you have working in the gardens?” the man called Sportacus said. “You should stop toying with them, Glanni.”

“But it’s so easy! He thinks I’m going to give him the town’s money – we get our potato field. Everybody wins! I mean, except him. I win.”

Trausti felt like he was being ignored here. He took the opportunity to try to slink towards the door – only for Sportacus to reach out and grab the collar of his shirt without even looking at him.

“Did you eat your orange?”

Mayor Glæpur’s smile was frozen for a split second, before he gestured at the peels. “What’s it look like? Of course I did.”

Trausti was suddenly dragged back, as Sportacus stepped forward, and kissed the mayor.

There was a moment of busy silence. Trausti squirmed, trying awkwardly not to interrupt but also wrench himself free. Sportacus pulled back, licking his lips.

“You don’t taste like orange.”

“Fuck,” Glæpur said, and then leaned back against his desk, flashing a coaxing grin. “I had a coffee afterwards?”

“So if I check your desk drawer- “

The mayor threw his arms up suddenly. “What have I done to deserve all this suspicion?”

To Trausti’s surprise, Sportacus laughed – and then leaned in, kissing Mayor Glæpur again, before pulling back, his impossibly blue eyes sparkling.

“Everything,” he said lowly.

They mayor and the freakishly muscular man called Sportacus stared at each other for a moment, while Trausti grew increasingly more agitated.

“Excuse me?” he piped up, tentatively. “I understand if you – if you don’t want to make a purchase, it’s perfectly fine, I can just be on my way- “

Both men turned to look at him. He closed his mouth and shrunk back.

“I’ll just,” he started weakly. “I’ll just – stay put.”

Sportacus turned back to the mayor, and pulled out two clementines from god knew where.

“Eat these,” he commanded. “On top of that orange you’re holding hostage.”

“Fine,” the mayor groaned, making a big show of relenting. “Fine. But you better come back after you dispose of this guy.”

“Excuse me, what do you mean by dispose-“

“Of course I’ll come back.” They were looking at each other again. “Stephanie’s birthday is coming up.”

"Again?" the mayor complained. 

"Every year, I'm afraid," Sportacus said dryly. 

“But - but what do you mean by disposing-“

“I’ll just drop you outside of town,” Sportacus said, turning to Trausti. He released the breath that had been building in his chest, shoulders slumping. 

“Oh, well- “

“From my hot air balloon. Try to aim for the lake.”

The mayor, to Trausti’s ever-increasing alarm, started laughing. Sportacus’ moustache was twitching like he was holding it back, but just barely.

“You see, this is my town,” Mayor Glæpur drawled, sitting back down. He glanced at Sportacus briefly, and smiled, like they were sharing an inside joke. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

The man called Sportacus grabbed Trausti again, starting to haul him to the door with the ease of a hurricane moving an ant around.

The last thing, Trausti saw, before the door slammed shut, and before he was unceremoniously punted out of a low-flying balloon, was Mayor Glæpur at his desk, flashing his teeth – and winking.

He was never, ever coming back to Lazytown again.