starriest ⭐ (o^▽^)o☆ 🌺

[name] was sitting on the back steps of the Las Nevadas administrative building, chewing the last bite of their homemade tuna sandwich and Googling "flights to literally anywhere with a beach," when a shadow fell over them. A very familiar and very annoying shadow.

"What are you doing?" Quackity’s voice sounded way too casual to be casual.

"Existing," [name] replied. "Barely."

He squinted at their phone screen. "Are you looking at beaches?"

"Is that illegal now?" [name] muttered.

"Depends. Are you trying to abandon your job, your duty, and…" his voice cracked slightly, but he recovered with a cough, "and your contractual obligations?"

"Vacation," [name] said with their mouth full of sandwich.

Quackity stared at them, wide-eyed, like they’d just said they were planning to set the casino on fire. Again. By accident.

And okay, maybe this wouldn’t have been so dramatic if Charlie hadn’t left a few weeks ago. Dramatically. In the rain. With sad music. And the sound of ducks in the background. Ever since, Quackity hadn’t been the same. He didn’t laugh like before. He’d gotten… clingier. More sarcastic. More “I’m gonna make you sign a 49-clause contract just to walk five blocks away.”

“Denied,” he said flatly, tossing a newspaper aside. “Las Nevadas is in a crisis.”

“We’re functioning perfectly,” [name] argued. “Everything’s going as planned. The casino’s open. The vault’s secured. The fridge is finally restocked.”

“Emotionally,” Quackity corrected. “We’re in emotional crisis.”

“Oh my god.”

He looked at them. “You can’t leave.”

“I haven’t gone out in months. I’m seeing cactus mirages in the break room.”

“Those are real. You brought them.”

“I need new cacti.”

And [name], who honestly didn’t have time for a presidential emotional breakdown, said it:

“You’re being unbearable, Quackity. You’re literally projecting all your Charlie stuff onto me. I just want to relax. I don’t even like casinos.”

“Of course! Because everyone leaves! Nobody cares about this nation!”

“I don’t care about nations in general!”

The next morning, [name] packed a backpack with a towel, sunscreen, an ugly-but-functional sunhat, and a (very professional) letter of temporary resignation. Not final. Just a break.

They left it on their desk with a smiling cactus sticker.

Eventually, [name] reached the coast. Everything was perfect: the sun, the warm air, the succulents swaying in the breeze. The bright blue water. The silence.

Then came the shadow.

A familiar one.

One shaped like a hat.

"You know," Quackity said, standing next to their beach towel, "you could’ve told me you were coming to the coast."

[name] looked up slowly. “How did you find me?”

He pulled out the vacation form. “You wrote your destination in the notes.”

“I hoped you’d ignore that part.”

“I ignored the approval part, not the location.”

Of course.

Quackity didn’t sit right away. He stood there, awkward, watching the waves like he was afraid relaxing too much would dissolve him into salt.

“Did you follow me here?” [name] asked.

“No.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he pulled out a suitcase from behind his back. It had gold Las Nevadas detailing, with a tiny cactus keychain on the zipper.

“Is that your beach suitcase?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, taking off his shoes. “This isn’t a vacation. It’s a business inspection. Of coastal security zones.”

[name] laughed. Loudly.

Quackity frowned. “What?”

“You’re the clingiest boss I’ve ever had.”

“Shut up. I’m conducting an official inspection.”

“Of the ocean?”

“Of staff in unapproved locations. You. You’re the staff.”

Quackity huffed. Crossed his arms. Then looked up at the sky. Then at the cactus. Then back at [name].

[name] looked at him. Then looked again.

“You literally can’t be alone for more than two days.”

“I said shut up.”

[name] shrugged. “You can stay if you’re such a control freak.”

Quackity sat down without a word. He didn’t say “thank you.” He didn’t say “I miss you.” He didn’t say “I’ve felt alone since Charlie left.” But he sat there with them, watching the sea in silence.

[name] closed their eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t a perfect vacation. But at least, for now, they were together.

And the cactus seemed to approve.

[name] had a very peculiar allergy.

it wasn’t one of those life-threatening allergies that required a medical certificate and emergency pills, but it was annoying enough to ruin their entire day: sneezing, watery eyes, itchy nose, and a voice so nasally that charlie once said they sounded like a duck trying to talk underwater. (he said it with love. probably.)

the cause?

chicken feathers.

and no, it wasn’t the chickens’ fault. [name] actually found them kind of cute. but just getting near one would send their immune system into a dramatic, horrible collapse.

so when they met quackity, they had a mild existential crisis.

because Quackity had wings. not just wings— feathered ears, a fluffy tail that sometimes wagged when he got excited, and a suit that definitely smelled like bird.

[name] went completely silent the first time they saw him, their eyes already irritated just from being in the same space.

—"are you okay? are you crying?" —asked the president of Las nevadas, as [name] blinked through tears and sneezed like they’d inhaled an entire plant.

—"it's nothing. I'm just sensitive to the environment..."

—"yeah, las nevadas has that kind of majestic air. i get it."

…he didn’t get it.

from that moment on, coexisting with him became slow torture.

quackity took off his coat? sneeze. flapped his wings as he walked? sneeze. leaned over the meeting table and a little white feather floated toward [name]? sneeze—dizzy.

And the worst part? Quackity found it adorable.

—"You've got an exotic allergy. Makes me feel unique."

—"It makes you feel unbearable."

—"Should I get feathered gloves too?"

[name] gave him a death stare.

they tried to keep their distance. slept with a scarf on, avoided his office chair, even sanitized everything with a flower broom (courtesy of Sam).

but then quackity would say things like:

—"you're gonna leave me with these incompetent fools? only you understand me, [name]."

and there they were again, breathing the contaminated air of las feather-nevadas.

of course, quackity noticed.

—"do you hate me?" —"no." —"then why do you treat me like I’m radioactive?"

but [name] never had the heart to say it outright. “sorry, i’m allergic to your entire feathered existence” just… sounded bad.

and as if that wasn’t punishment enough, they somehow ended up as his personal assistant. by his side. all day. watching as every time he shifted, clouds of allergy hell floated through the air.

once, [name] had a sneezing fit so intense they tripped over a lamp. that’s when quackity finally asked:

—"hey… are you allergic to feathers?"

[name] didn’t answer. they just gave him a look that said everything.

and so began the quackity allergy awareness era.

he started wearing this massive coat that covered his whole body (he looked like a walking beanbag), tied his tail up with a scarf (bad idea—don’t try that), and even kept his distance on purpose, like he was the one scared of hurting them.

it was… kind of sweet.

[name], still sniffling, started to smile more.

but of course—it was quackity, so eventually:

—"hey, I’ve dressed like a mummy all week. don’t I deserve a hug?"

—"NO! you’ll flap and I’ll literally die!"

—"just a little one. just with my hands. my wings won’t even move, I promise. Look, they’re asleep."

—"how can wings be asleep?!"

—"trust the process."

and that was the beginning of chaos.

because every time [name] started getting comfortable, quackity got excited, feathers flew, sneezing attacks returned, and their eyes were watering all over again.

and yet… [name] kept coming back.

—"was it worth it?" —quackity asked one day, handing them a tissue mid-sneeze.

—"for you, no. for me… also no. but I like you, i guess."

at some point, nobody understood why [name] still worked with him.

except [name].

and Quackity.

though one of them took it more seriously than the other.

—"do you want tea? feather-free?"

—"WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT, QUACKITY?! 😭"

“i quit.” — they say. but do they really?

[name] had enough.

enough of quackity talking at them like they were just a wall with a clipboard. enough of the fake job title, the unpaid labor, the daily assignments that included things like “stand near the fountain and look slightly impressed.” enough of cleaning up broken poker chips after charlie’s meltdowns, enough of being told to “look professional” when they hadn’t even been given a shirt with sleeves.

so, they quit.

they didn’t make a scene. just… left a note on quackity’s desk that said:

“thanks for the trauma. i’m gonna go work literally anywhere else. - [name]”

they packed the one bag they had (with their cactus tea mug, a pencil, and their sad collection of casino chips), dusted off their boots, and marched through the sunlit streets of las nevadas.

they would get a new job. A real one.

they tried the sandwich shop.

“sorry, we’re not hiring.” tried the hat store. “we only hire qualified people.” tried the cactuar delivery stand. “we already have a delivery person. it's… confidential.”

everywhere they went, there was a smile, a sorry, and a no. and behind the counter, always, always: a glance at the window. a whisper into a communicator. a lingering silence.

SUS. VERY SUS.

by noon, [name] had no job, no direction, and half a sandwich they’d been saving since breakfast.

they sat on the curb outside the general store, legs stretched out in the heat, chewing slowly. staring at the sky. thinking.

that’s when they heard the steps.

the confident, smug, stupidly well-timed steps of the one person they definitely did not want to see.

quackity.

“hey,” he said, standing over them. “you look like trash.”

[name] blinked up, chewing their sandwich with aggressive neutrality. “thanks. i feel worse.”

he crouched beside them, sunglasses glinting, wings twitching a little behind his back.

“you know…” he began slowly, like he’d practiced this in the mirror. “if you were struggling, you could’ve just asked for help.”

[name] narrowed their eyes. “i’m not struggling.”

“you’re sitting outside the store like a kicked puppy eating sad bread.”

“it’s a sandwich.”

he smirked. “it’s a cry for help.”

[name] stood up.

“well, guess what? i’m still not going back.”

quackity tilted his head, casual. “oh? i wasn’t gonna offer. just came to check if the streets were clean. it’s part of my job as president.”

“you’re following me.”

he gasped, mock offense. “me? follow you? noooo. i have a nation to run. important people to see.”

“you’ve ‘coincidentally’ found me four times today.”

he shrugged. “las nevadas is a small country.”

[name] groaned and started walking away. “leave me alone, quackity.”

he followed. “i can’t do that.”

“why?”

“because i haven’t trained a replacement yet.”

they stopped.

turned.

stared.

quackity stopped too, almost bumping into them.

“…you didn’t deny it,” [name] said, quietly.

“deny what?”

“that you’re the reason no one’s hiring me.”

he looked to the side. Whistled.

“quackity.”

“i mean,” he muttered, “i might’ve reminded the locals that you’re… technically under contract.”

“i’m not!”

“…you were. it was verbal. verbal. lots of yelling involved. that counts.”

[name] glared. “i quit.”

he looked at them now, a little more serious.

“you think quitting solves everything?”

“it’s called boundaries.”

he hesitated. then added:

“…it’s also called abandonment.”

silence. [name] flinched.

and quackity immediately looked away, biting his cheek, clearly regretting his own words.

a beat passed.

“i just…” he tried again. “look. you were useful. i mean—good. at your job. even when i was a dick.”

“you still are.”

“yeah. i know. but when you’re around, i feel like I’m not talking to myself. that’s… useful.”

[name] blinked.

then blinked again.

“…that’s your apology?”

“i’m new at this.”

“you kidnapped me, quackity.”

he raised a finger. “hired. forcefully.”

“you trapped me in a pyramid and made me host poker nights.”

“that was training.”

[name] sighed. looked at the sandwich in their hand. it had a bite mark in the shape of stress.

they sat back down. quackity sat beside them.

another silence.

“i still hate the job,” they muttered.

he nodded. “i’ll double your salary.”

“it was zero.”

“…i’ll give you a cookie every friday.”

“add cactus tea and you’ve got a deal.”

he held out a hand.

[name] didn’t take it right away.

but they didn’t walk away either.