Long Live L'Manberg

Chapter 48: By The Throat

tw//verbal and physical abuse.

Quackity's eyes fluttered open as he stared at his bedroom ceiling, his tired gaze fixating on the bland, white surface. He could hardly keep them open, the three hours of broken sleep under his belt unable to pull their weight as he attempted to keep himself awake. It was impossible for him to sleep both nights after the atrocities that occurred under his watch, his entire mindset a jumbled cluster of regrets. Today marked two days since Tubbo's failed execution, and the gravity of it all still weighed on his shoulders. Quackity looked out the window and sighed in defeat. By the looks of it, it appeared to be just around noon. He hated sleeping the day away, but with such little rest, he didn't have much of an option. Using all his strength, he lifted himself upward, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed.

Dark, baggy eyes glowered back at him in the mirror as he gave a disgusted once-over at himself before slumping over toward his dresser. His black hair was disheveled from a rough night's sleep, pointing in every which way. He ran through it with a comb a few times until it was just right, only to cover it up with his signature navy beanie. He removed his shirt and slung it over his shoulder, replacing his baggy sleep shirt with a nice white button-up.

After freshening up, Quackity quietly opened his bedroom door, gently shutting it behind him. Making his way down the hallway, he took the time to mentally prepare himself to face his business partner. After the incident, he was exceptionally fed up with Schlatt's tyrannical dictatorship. This was a one-man party- he knew that all too well. He took a deep breath before gently twisting the door handle, entering the one place he dreaded being the most.

Schlatt briefly looked up from his desk. "Morning," he grumbled, though he seemed to be more focused on the pen at his fingertips, feverishly signing a giant stack of paperwork. Quackity nodded in return, choosing to keep his lips sealed. Avoiding eye contact with his business partner, his eyes focused on the revolver that was mounted to the wall, his heart hardening a little. He brushed past Schlatt's desk, narrowing his eyes at the piles of paper haphazardly scattered across. Picking up a piece of paper, he wrinkled his brow, getting a better look. "What's this?"

"It's a demolition notice," Schlatt muttered monotonously, not looking up from his work. "I want this place torn down and rebuilt, it's too damn shabby in here."

A sudden anger stirred within him as Quackity slammed the piece of paper back onto the desk in a fit of rage. From the beginning, he was in charge of overseeing the construction of the White House, and after months of living here, he had grown emotionally attached to his work. "What?!" he barked, his temper sparking. "No way! You're not taking the White House down!"

"The hell I'm not," Schlatt scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "I'm the president, I'll do whatever the fuck I want." He then took a swig of the glass resting by the corner of his desk, leaving a ring of condensation where the glass once was. Quackity's eyes lowered, taking note of the nearly empty bottle of scotch that rested at the corner of Schlatt's desk. He sighed, disappointed that his political partner was wasting away in his office on a Sunday afternoon instead of actually doing his job. It was utterly repulsive, but then again, Schlatt had set the bar rather low from the very beginning.

Taking a deep breath, he attempted to swallow down his frustration. "I worked on this!" Quackity complained, betrayal welling up in his chest. "This was my project man, you have no right to touch it!" He truly hated how angry Schlatt was able to make him. The man that came out when Schlatt was around was not his true self, he knew that very well. A scornful laugh escaped Schlatt's lips as he tapped the pen on top of his paper. He finally made eye contact with Quackity, a condescending smirk curving at the corners of his lips. "No right, huh?"