Work Text:
8:36 am
There was one con to working from home: the ability to have a flexible sleep schedule.
On some days Zhongli can wake up at ten in the morning, slowly eat a bowl of cereal while scrolling through Childe’s block of texts complaining about Mondays, then open up his laptop and resume his work on a documentary about the history and usage of Silk Flowers throughout millennia at eleven with no problem. On others, Zhongli scrambles out of bed before Childe is even awake, running in and out the shower to run out the door at eight because his editor is so very particular about meetings.
In a few ways this is a pro— he gets to sleep most of the time and when he finally opens and rubs his eyes, a stack of pancakes is already sitting pretty on the kitchen table for him in the morning. (They tend to be on the soggier side, but Childe is yet to figure out that a cup of water is different from his tall coffee mug.)
It is a con solely because there are mornings where he misses Childe by a few minutes after he runs out the door to work, or Childe is still snoring the night away when he wakes up for his own early-bird meetings.
But on Saturdays they can meet in the middle, waking up to Childe’s loud snores besides him without the need to roll off the mattress and into the roll call at the editor’s office.
He pokes his cheek once, twice. A nudge on his shoulder is next on the agenda, and Zhongli hears a delay in Childe’s next snore.
“Tartaglia,” he pokes his cheek once more (a habit, or perhaps a moment of indulgence for him— it was like poking bread, really), “Tartaglia, wake up please?”
Childe wakes up with a jolt, mid-snore; exclaims “Wha— Zhongli?!” while half-awake. “What time is it?” He whips his head a bit too hard trying to glance at the clock, only seeing the red flashing 8 and not the Saturday below the current time.
“Tartaglia—”
“I’m going to be late, oh my Gods, thank you for waking me up Zhongli—”
Then Zhongli watches so helplessly as Childe rolls out of bed, landing face-flat on the floor.
He waits. He waits for almost a minute, waiting for Childe to get up with newfound energy and desire for coffee from his larger-than-measuring-cup mug. Zhongli waits, but he swears he hears another snore.
“It’s… Saturday, Tartaglia.”
By the time the next hour strikes, Zhongli is still in bed, held hostage by a clingy Childe who holds him so tightly even when fast asleep.
12:56 pm
“I think it is… twenty mora.”
“You should know better than this, Childe— it is obviously two mora.”
Zhongli lifts his head up after placing the pallet of water bottles on the bottom level of their shopping cart. He finds the paper sign hanging above the other pallets in rounded numbers: Five mora.
Childe woops from behind the shopping cart. “That’s another point for me, then.” He reaches into the cart to grab their pen and paper, a second checkmark finding its home next to Childe’s name. Below it, however, was Zhongli’s name next to an outstanding six checkmarks; a record-breaking score as of late.
Prior to meeting Zhongli and being introduced to the curse of an incoming text saying “I forgot my wallet, can you please pick up some milk”, Childe had stepped into a grocery store no more than thrice in his lifetime. Paired with Zhongli’s aforementioned tendency to forget his wallet and often not having enough pocket change when out and about, together they could accurately guess the prices for items if they divided Childe’s prediction by Zhongli’s.
But that’s too boring, Childe whined once when Zhongli brought up his amazing idea. Their compromise manifested in the form of their tiny Regirock-styled notepad taking note of whoever guesses closer to the item’s price. On the very very rare occasions when one of them guesses the exact price, the lucky man earns two checks.
At the end of each month, the loser buys dinner for the winner.
It helps that Childe was born into old money.
Their next test subject: a used copy of Pokémon X.
“50 mora,” Childe blurts out.
“Actually, because X is still rather popular but not so old that it’s out of circulation in most places, I doubt it’ll be higher than the original price of 40 mora,” Zhongli inspects the game box carefully, as if it’ll make any difference in his prediction. “My guess is 20 mora.”
Childe scoffs. But then he looks up, lets out the most exhausted sigh, and reluctantly adds two new checkmarks besides Zhongli’s name.
6:17 pm
childe 🐳💙
it’ll be sooooo romantic
we’ll make it a date night
c’mon you punk bitch
you amazing loving encouraging bf
Me
I can’t believe I have to say this
I don’t have time to rob Northland Bank with you tomorrow
“Boo.” Childe’s eyebrows furrow together as he frowns at his phone screen, “What’s a relationship if you don’t steal from banks with me?”
Zhongli can think of at least three reasons.
First of all, as the future heir to the Northland Bank and its various other branches throughout the financial world, it would not help his nor the family’s reputation if he is the one stealing from the family business. His chances of becoming the president would drop like flies faced with a swatter, if there ever was a presidential position left to be fulfilled after Childe robs it.
Second, Zhongli isn’t quite fond of crime. He’s pirated a few songs, as most people do, but a bank was out of his reach.
And third—
“A relationship that stays out of jail, I assume.”
Childe continues to pout, until suddenly he turns back to Zhongli with twinkling eyes. “If I landed myself in jail stealing from my family’s bank, would you bail me out?”
“Yes, of course I would.” This part was easy. It was effortless to forget his own wallet, but Zhongli would show up to the precinct with Childe’s in tow instead.
He presses on. “And if I was magically transformed into a worm? What then?”
“I would ask a wizard to also transform me into a worm so I could be a worm with you. Obviously.”
He laughs when Childe’s eyes twinkle once more with pure admiration in his eyes, imagining a lovely life with the other as a worm or whatever creature he could think up, as long as Zhongli was with him also.