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There were approximately seven mistakes Robbie could remember having ever made. There may have been more, but if so, they were lost to him forever.
Right off the bat, he decided to be born. He’d always considered that a questionable move.
Once, in high school, he decided not to copy down his neighbor’s history notes and because of it, he failed his final exam and had to retake the class through the summer. He missed out on all his best, most lazy summer plans, and he never really recovered.
In college he’d dated the flashy girl from his beginner math course. They were doomed from the start despite having similar interests in fashion and music; turns out having a similar interest in men was a deal breaker.
For that matter, college in general was one of the worst mistakes he had ever made, and gave up on it pretty quick.
The second time he tried to go through college was marginally worse.
After he gave up on college the second time, he moved to LazyTown. It wasn’t that big of a deal at first, but the arrival of Number 9, and then Sportacus, ruined the good vibe he had going. How can you be lazy with over-active puppies running around? You can’t. Big mistake there.
He thought he had been doing pretty good since the last big mistake; he’d planned out his schemes carefully and with tact. He’d avoided sports candies and exercise (it doesn’t count if you’re active for a purpose; that’s just how work is.) He moved his lair below ground and away from noisy brats and determined elves. He thought he had everything under control.
But then he made his seventh and, in his opinion, worst mistake.
He implied that Sportacus couldn’t bake.
He’d thought it was a safe bet. What would Sportanerd know about baking? About as much as Robbie knew about soccer. It was a sport, there was a ball involved, and it required more energy than Robbie thought he’d ever had in his life. What could Sport say about baking? That there was an oven and sweets? He certainly didn’t mean for the elf to actually try to bake. Especially not in HIS LAIR. (”Robbie, I don’t have an oven in the airship. Can I use yours?”)
Yet that’s exactly what happened. Sportacus insisted that of COURSE he knew how to bake, he grew up baking snacks with his mother when he was still just a wee lad. “I’ll make you my favourite Robbie! Wow, this will be fun, I haven’t baked in years!” His eyes seemed really sparkle, and if the villain was being honest with himself, that was terrifying. He ignored the way his heart flittered and skipped a beat at the idea of Sportaloon baking just for him and focused on how horribly it was going to end up.
This is how he found himself ruminating over an entire life’s worth of mistakes on a park bench, wondering if he could maybe take everything back. Just how much work would a time machine require? Would prayer alone be enough? Hadn’t Stingy once wished a coin into existence? Maybe he could just wish all his mistakes away…
Before he could put the idea to the test, Sportacus was triumphantly putting a large platter of, dare he say it, beautiful looking muffins down in Robbie’s lap. Robbie looked up again, eyes wide with surprise, and regretted it when he saw the hero’s face. The muffins weren’t the only beautiful thing, and the villain could kick himself for allowing his thoughts to wander to his nemesis of all people. Don’t think about how flushed his face is from the heat of the oven. Don’t think about his stupid puppy grin. Don’t think about that blond lock of hair that’s come loose from his hat. Don’t think about HIM.
“Don’t they look good? They’re a family recipe! Bran með straumum!“ He grabbed one and took a bite out of it before Robbie had the good sense to panic.
“Don’t eat that you fool what are you…?” His fear gave way to confusion midway through grabbing the muffin out of Sportacus’s hand, the hand that was very much still firmly holding the muffin, attached to the hero that was not passing out. “Wha…?”
At first Sportacus seemed just as confused as Robbie before he realized the reason for concern. “It’s okay Robbie! I can eat these! You should try one.” He held one out to Robbie, wiggling it just a bit.
“What, is it made with fake sugar?” He eyed the hero suspiciously, but took the offered sweet anyways. God did they smell good though, and so enticing looking. They had a sticky topping and what appeared to be mini chocolate chips scattered throughout.
Sportacus grinned. “No! I made them with honey and just a little molasses. That’s why they’re so dark! It’s not very good for me, and it comes dangerously close to causing a sugar melt down, but if I just have one then it’s okay. Oh, they’re such a wicked junk food, but I love them so much.” His wide grin turned a little wistful and it plucked a heartstring Robbie didn’t even know he had. “It reminds me of home. Thank you for letting me make these for you Robbie! I hope you like them.”
He had to look away from Sportacus. It was like staring into the sun; no matter how beautiful it was, it hurt to look on him too long and it made Robbie feel feelings that he did not want to have to deal with. This was definitely a mistake, but at least he got a muffin out of it. Without waiting any longer, he took a huge bite out of it under Sportacus’s excited and expectant gaze—
--And had to immediately fight the urge to spit it at the elf’s shoes. Tears sprung to his eyes as he struggled to keep the offending bite in his mouth. Whatever those things were, they definitely were NOT mini chocolate chips. He didn’t know what kind of flour Sport used either, but he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that he was in Hell and that muffin was his divine punishment.
With a prayer that he wouldn’t gag and a grimace, he swallowed the bite down and turned to give Sportacus a verbal lashing but his words died in his throat when he saw the frankly sickeningly hopeful look on the elf’s face. The most he could muster was a weak “what kind of muffin was that exactly, Sportadork?”
“I told you! Bran with currents!” He couldn’t seem to stand still in his excitement, rocking up and down onto the balls of his feet. “I made it with prune juice too so they would be a little less dry!”
Robbie couldn’t hold his criticism in anymore. “You made this sound like some glorious junk food, Sportakill, and you’re telling me you willingly fed me something my grandfather wouldn’t even eat for breakfast if you paid him? My grandfather loves money, Sportakook!"
Sportacus’s bright grin only faltered for a second before he belted out a laugh that startled the fuming villain. “But Robbie! Bran IS junk food! It’s the outer shell of cereal! It’s the garbage part of the plant! And molasses, you can’t call that healthy at all!” He clapped Robbie once on his shoulder and nearly sent the villain sprawling into the ground, growling all the way. “That’s exactly what junk food is!”
Robbie spluttered indignantly. “That’s not junk food you loon! There’s no sugar, no chocolate…! You made it with prune juice! What am I supposed to do with these?”
Sport laughed again and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, his moustache twitching with mirth. Robbie was thankfully too distracted by his anger to parse the feeling that gave him, and he put it aside for later. Or never.
“It’s okay Robbie, I’ll share them with the children if you don’t want them! I’m sure they’d love to try something new from my home town.”
“Sportajerk, I’m all for children suffering but don’t you think that’s cruel? I know I joked about you being more of a villain than you let on to be but you don’t need to prove it! If you keep this up, I’ll be out of a job. Then what? Become the hero? I’d be terrible at it!”
Sportacus’s smile softened into something affectionate and Robbie gave up on keeping track of how many feelings he was going to have to unpack when he got back home. At this point, he’d be happy if the heat he felt in his face wasn’t as obvious as he thought it was. “For what it’s worth Robbie, I think you’d make a very good hero if you tried hard enough. Thank you for letting me bake for you! It was fun. I’m going to give these to the children while they’re still warm. You should probably go lay down for a bit, you’re starting to look like you’re overheating.” Damn. Sportacus picked the tray back up from Robbie’s lap and with a big grin, took off down the way with a “Bye Robbie!” trailing after him.
And if Robbie, dumbstruck in his spot on the park bench, waved back, who would know?