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It is easy. It is so very easy to forget that Sportacus has only been in Lazytown for a short while, when by all accounts he has gotten so comfortable as to call it home. Lazytown was perfect.
It was idyllic, not quite so bustling -Sportacus couldn't stand the noise and pollution of a real city- but not quite so rural that his Elven-type technology would stand out so horribly. It was a town of lovely, friendly people, who largely kept to themselves and had deep respect for the spiritual. Not all of them. Not excessively. But they knew what Sportacus was. They knew what Robbie was.
He is not sure if the knowledge of Robbie is what makes them spiritual, or if Robbie had come due to their spirituality.
Sportacus forgets sometimes, that he is new, and he is still trying to learn many things of Lazytown but even he knows you couldn't get more Lazytown than Robbie Rotten.
Robbie Rotten often reminded Sportacus of a large, well fed tiger, resting in the sun.
Robbie Rotten is solitary, sleepy, endearingly feline. His metaphorical pawing and batting against curious, mischievous children are annoyed, but ultimately playful- not seeking to harm, and he removes himself in fits of true agitation and anger. Content, really, in his lot in life. His age does not show in wrinkles and creaky joints, rather in his insistence to peace, sweet treats, and seeking deep bliss.
Once, Sportacus had taken a 5 minute break between playing games with the children, and he sat himself on the low rise wall in the back of the park where Robbie Rotten had taken to nap, with a newspaper resting over his eyes to block the heat and light of the sun. Sportacus turns to see him yawn, and it is a beastly thing; his mouth full of fangs and his tongue a ribbon of red, a vivid scarlet akin to fresh blood.
When he closes his mouth, grumbling, Sportacus remembers that tigers were predators, and a predator-old and fat and happy-was a very good one.
He knows that Robbie Rotten is a fae, and so does every other sensible adult in town. He alone may know that the man is not elvish, though this is not so uncommon. Every elf was Fae, but not all Fae were elves, after all. He knows that Robbie is a very good fae, in that he is old and happy and content, but still keeps his claws sharp through his glamour, his tricks, his looks; beautiful and bizarre.
Sportacus knows Robbie Rotten is old. Not as old as Lazytown, to be precise; he had not been present back when Lazytown had gone by the name of Latibær, but certainly older than most generations who presently lived in it, older than most of the modernised buildings, as old as the magic that runs through the veins of the town.
It's curious. Robbie never wants to tell him whenever Sportacus brings it up though, which is not very often. He scowls and glares and calls him out for his rudeness, were elves never taught against asking a lady her age?
Robbie Rotten makes Sportacus feel childish; immature, too energised, and completely, embarrassingly besotted.
Sportacus was new, but he loved Lazytown, and he knew you couldn't get more Lazytown than Robbie Rotten. Perhaps one day, when the children grow and Sportacus grows along with them: strong and fat and blissfully happy, he would gather enough courage to do something about it. He knows they have all the time in the world.
For now, he would let sleeping tigers lie.