Sir Growlington and Mr. Fluffykins

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In a wood-paneled room, the scent of which was a magical combination of old books and the cocoa powder left over from a mug that was never quite clean, two boys sat back to back. They sat on the floor with stiff postures and faces—if you can call them faces—like pancakes that had been left on the table too long: flat, expressionless, and slightly dusty with the powdered sugar residue of unquenched anger. There was no sound, no movement, except for the occasional small sigh, like a pony who had just lost its carrot.

On each of their laps was a silent witness to this dispute. The smaller one was holding a shaggy rabbit named Mr. Fluffykins, his fur half bald from too many hugs, and—don’t tell anyone—often used to wipe away tears. The larger one was holding a shaggy monkey with a truly aristocratic name: Sir Growlington III. But despite his grand name, Sir Growlington mostly served as a makeshift pillow on nights of imaginary adventure.

And why are they fighting? Ah, of course, something monumental. Is it about who had the last remote? Or maybe who got the bigger slice of cake (which, if weighed, would probably be the size of a pea)? But in the world of children, small matters can escalate into diplomatic battles of national proportions.

But look closely. Though they sit back to back with the grandeur of a king turning away from his archenemy, they are no more than a few inches apart. It’s funny, really—it’s like they want to be farther apart, but they keep getting closer. Like two magnets repelling each other, but never quite pulling apart.

Silence hangs in the air, dancing between bruised egos. Ten seconds pass. Twenty seconds. Then—

Grrrrrrrr.

Not thunder. Not a dragon roar. But the sound of the little brother’s stomach, roaring like a hungry little dragon. Suddenly, the older brother giggled—only for a moment—then quickly covered his mouth with his hand, trying to maintain his pride as the one who got angry first. The younger brother, who clearly felt his dignity was tarnished, tried to maintain a sullen face. However, a small sparkle in his eyes betrayed that intention. Laughter was lining up neatly at the corner of his lips, waiting for the cue to jump out.

The older brother finally gave in first. Half-lazily, he glanced back from the corner of his eye. "Want some biscuits?"

The younger brother pretended to think, pressing his chin in the most arrogant manner possible. "Depends. How many?"

The older brother sighed, then reached into his trouser pocket and took out two biscuits that he had saved from the previous incident. With a slow and dramatic movement, he handed them to the younger brother. For a split second the younger brother tried to maintain an indifferent expression, then—with an attitude half annoyed, half happy—took the biscuits without saying much.

And so it was, Sir Growlington and Mr. The Fluffykins finally made peace, with the proof of the peace being two plushies now sitting side by side on the floor, while their owners happily munched on biscuits. It didn't take long for the conversation to shift to something far more important.

"Who do you think will win? Ninjas or robots?" the younger sibling asked through a mouthful of crumbs.

The older sibling chewed quietly, then replied with confidence, "It depends. If the ninjas have laser swords, the robots are finished."

The younger sibling's eyes widened. "But what if the robots could fly?"

And just like that, their diplomatic war ended in peace. A biscuit, a chuckle, and the world went back to normal.