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Summary
“Sir?” he croaks out, and flinches when Schlatt fucking growls at him.
“Shut up.” Schlatt stares with his hand outstretched, almost brushing Quackity’s heaving chest, until the silence is too goddamn much and he feels like his head is going to explode, and -
Schlatt moves with a frightening speed, raising the bottle the rest of the way to his mouth and tipping it backwards, polishing it off in one go.
Quackity watches and thinks for an awful second he’s going to be picking glass out of his hair tonight.
Or,
Quackity and Schlatt have a late-night argument.
(Physical and verbal abuse happen in this fic. The worst it gets physically is a slap. Please be mindful of yourself, it isn’t my intention to hurt anyone.)
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