The Jellybean War

Living with acute sugar sensitivity was not something that Michael enjoyed. It was one of life's real cruelties, harnessing him with a condition that made him addicted to sweet things while unable to enjoy them because they shifted his mood with startling strength. In order for Michael to satisfy his cravings safely, he had to eat copious amounts of carbohydrates before and after, and take various pills to balance out his system. It was all very silly.

Therefore, Michael tended to be fiercely protective of his treats whenever he was allowed them, on birthdays, for example, and other holidays. And once a year, the Easter Bunny left him a large basket filled with jelly beans, with a note warning him not to eat too many at once.

This was fine with Michael; if he could control himself, the candy would last that much longer. Having no siblings growing up and, later in life, a husband who shared not his passion for all things glucose, Michael thought he was safe from bean thieves. When his son grew old enough to walk, however, he discovered this was not so.

Given that it had to visit every Easter-celebrating household in the developed world, the Easter Bunny had no time to be selective in which colours of jelly bean it gave to its children (or childlike adults; either way). Michael left the colours he didn't like – yellow, green, and black – for anyone who did. He even left a note proclaiming this, so long as everyone left him the others, particularly the red ones.

However.

“Paul, have you been eating my jelly beans?” Michael heard the pout in his own voice and didn't bother to hide it.

Paul, attempting to cook dinner for the three of them with Michael's arms wrapped around his waist, just shook his head. “You know I think they're icky.”

Michael rested his chin on the crook of Paul's shoulder. “Well, I swear all the red ones are disappearing.”

“Probably because you're eating them.”

“That is not why. I always save the red ones for last, but I counted them and there are lots less!”

Paul turned the heat down to simmer and twisted in Michael's grip, placing a kiss to his collarbone. “Now you're just being silly, not to mention childish. I know you're anal retentive, but I doubt even you could remember a constant ratio-thingie of how many colours of candy you have left. Go set the table.”

Michael wrinkled his nose and kissed him, but obeyed.

The next morning, Michael stopped by his candy stash – he kept it on the bureau in the dining room – and rifled through, searching in vain for his favourite flavour. There were none. He instantly called Paul over, ostensibly for a kiss, but actually checked his lips for staining and his tongue for any hint of artificial cherry. Unfortunately, Paul passed, and Michael was left baffled.

The next day, all the oranges were gone. The next, the pink. Michael tried hiding the container in the cupboard, under his bed, in his dresser, and each time found that another colour group had vanished.

Finally, Michael got so exasperated that Paul banned him to the couch until he stopped rambling about the unfairness of it all while they tried to sleep. “This is stupid,” Michael muttered, lying on the futon and staring out into the darkness. Maybe if he looked hard enough he could see the gnomes or whatever else it was who kept stealing his precious treasures.

At some unspecified hour, a door creaked and Michael heard soft footfalls padding through the hall, nearly inaudible on the soft carpet. Instantly he was up, pillow in hand. If Paul was the one responsible all along, no amount of squealing would save him from instant tickle-death...

Imagine Michael's surprise, however, when the culprit was a good foot and a half shorter than the one he'd anticipated, and was clad in superhero pyjamas rather than a lavender nightgown. “Robbie!” Michael cried out, before remembering he needed the light on in order for the child to understand him.

Robbie froze with the last purple jelly bean held halfway to his mouth. “Hi.” He signed with the other hand. “I'm an alien?”

“Nice try!” Michael pounced on him and tackled the boy gently, tickling his sides for a moment before letting go so they could talk. “Robbie, I would buy you whatever candy you want, you know that. Why can't you just let Daddy have his? I didn't even know you liked jelly beans.”

Robbie shifted weight between his feet, and his hands twitched as though about to make signs before he thought better of it. Michael narrowed his eyes and drew out Robbie's name sign slowly. “What are you hiding?”

Eventually, after much coaxing and not a few threats of withheld dessert or other privileges, Robbie hung his head. “Daddy said if I ate all the ones you liked he'd buy me my own candy 'cause when you eat it you get all crazy and he hates it.”

Michael's eyebrows crept upward until they disappeared into his bangs. “Is that so?”

Robbie clutched at Michael's pant leg for a second, pleading. “Don't tell him I told you!”

“Oh, I won't.” Michael picked the boy up and carried him back to his room. “You've been a good boy and I won't say anything to Daddy at all.”

That morning, come sun-up, Paul couldn't find his favourite skirt. Michael shrugged elaborately and suggested he ask the sketchy-looking woman at the dry cleaner's.