Tyrelliot; Quarantine, Day- whatever (the basics)
They both agree that the kids needs these skills. It’s not quite ironic that they need them just as much, if not more.
“First of all,” Tyrell begins, flour in his hair, a ring of sugar around his feet in a perfect circle. He looks like he’s in the midst of a sacrifice. “Why are recipes ever written like this?”
“They’re always written this way, babe.” Elliot smirks, eyes watering from the ingredients of one batch. They’d either used too much *something* in the mixture or he was allergic. Maybe it was just the look of the contents of the little stack of metal bowls. Signifying, not their failures, he’d reminded his husband throughout, but a skill they were learning to pass on to their children.
“If they want them put together in a certain order, it should say so, up there.” The blond replies stubbornly.
“Don’t disagree with ya, but I think the idea is so whoever is putting themselves through this bullshit has everything they need in their panty.”
“I really hope the world doesn’t end.” There’s a slight smirk on the taller man’s face, but Elliot knows that’s not far enough from his ‘I’m about to flip tables’ expression to push him too hard. And, he has a point.
A few hours later, after the boys have finished their workbooks in their rooms, they bounce down the stairs. Homeschooling had otherwise been easy; the last class of the day already looked like a nightmare.
The neatfreak of the two, Rex, quickly cleans the table while Milo holds out a tablet, volume low. In 20 minutes they’re functioning together as they always do, and better. Their bedtime is extended (quite a bit), but by the end of the very early following morning, there’s several fresh baked loaves of bread.
Elliot and Tyrell agree they don’t really get to take credit for this, they’re just immensely proud that their sons are so adaptive so easily. It’s a skill both of them have, but apparently there’s a really strange data point in the learning curve when it comes to life skills. They silently blame their own upbringings, and move on, high-fiving their (less than themselves) exhausted children on the way to bed- finally.
