Work Text:
Working at Pierce & Pierce was indubitably tedious, perhaps even banal. It was a job that reaped almost little to no prospects, but a guaranteed advantageous repute in the tacit social hierarchy which was all that Patrick had ever desired. Sometimes he felt frustrated that this job was all that had been amassed of his arduous studies, efforts and endeavours all the way back from Harvard; but he could suppose that it wasn't all so bad.
Aside from his earning of a respectable societal status, he found that, strangely enough, he was able to do what his heart desired most in his office; and each time, he concerned seemingly no one. He could mute the monotonous droll of the fax printer’s whirring or the faint drumming of some bitch’s opulent high-heels on the bland carpeted floor with the tasteful music through his Walkman headphones. The walls of his office offered a comfortable privacy, as well as the closed blinds by the room windows that began to collect dust as the weeks passed.
It was a luxurious lifestyle. Patrick was well aware that the pathetic scum that he drove past on his way to work would sacrifice more than their left kidneys to live a life so lavish as his. His favourite pastime was none other than to ogle at the passersby as they eyed the exorbitant fabrics of his pinstripe Valentino suit, the velvet of his Brioni tie, the polished leather of his wing tipped brogues. Nothing in his life had he craved more than their attention.
One could then easily imagine that it was difficult for Patrick to accept that Paul Allen had stolen his spotlight. The passersby only stared more intently at his Armani spread-collar shirts, his pinstripe high-rise suit bottoms; and those damned Oliver Peoples glasses. The only laughable aspect of the man was his comical, outdated slick back hairdo. That was the one part of Patrick that Paul would never be able to copy.
He recollected his first encounter with Paul Allen. A newbie, flustered and disheveled. He stumbled bashfully around the halls of the building; clutching onto his cheap, faux leather briefcase for dear life. The man couldn’t remember where his own office was until his second week at Pierce & Pierce.
They all ridiculed him. Tim, Craig, David, and most of all, Patrick himself. The newcomer stuck out like a sore thumb among the elite men that he tried to disguise himself within. Patrick even found himself complaining about the man to Jean from time to time, who listened wordlessly. Not once did he bother to lower their tone when Paul walked by, who was now likely well aware of what was being said about him. Perhaps that was Patrick’s fatal mistake.
For it was soon afterwards that luck went against his favour, for the first time in his life. Following the recognition of a promotion that Patrick assumed he had secured, he only bore witness to the widening grin on Paul’s cherubic face once he was informed of the news that he was, instead, gifted with the promotion. What more was he going to steal from him?
His hatred for the man only fueled from there. Paul strutted into the office smartly, only a few days having passed since; a sudden confidence that followed him as he walked. He even donned a designer Mulberry briefcase in his right hand, complimented with a Vacheron Constantin wristwatch that teased Patrick’s eyes as it lay low below his Tom Ford cuff-links.
“What are you wearing?” Patrick made an attempt to sneer, but his awe was made evident regardless. He couldn’t even begin to estimate the price tags for each of the clothing articles Paul was impeccably dressed in.
“You look great, Allen,” Luis whistled beside him, admiring the precious cuff-links of his shirtsleeves. A small crowd began to form, murmuring their compliments and accolades. Even Jean paused from her errands to appreciate Paul’s new appearance.
“Get back to work.” Patrick demanded sharply. His words were intended for Jean, but people began to disintegrate, nonetheless. Only Patrick and Paul remained, standing facing one another.
“Say, Halberstram…” He pouted playfully, running a hand lightly through his gelled hair. Which, Patrick noticed, was styled very well. For once. “What do you think?”
He was, truth be told, lost for words. Now, Paul looked as though he deserved to have his office alone on the top floor of the entire building, with occupied telephones in each hand, ordering about Patrick and all the other less bankers he deemed to be lower than him in competence.
“Looking good, huh?” Paul smirked as he tugged at his own collar. “Halberstram.”
“I’m not Halberstram,” Patrick uttered eventually, breaking himself out of his trance. “I’m Patrick Bateman.”
“Oh!” he gasped, followed by a small smile of veracity. “You’re only telling me now? Pardon me, Pat.”
Pat. Patrick grimaced visibly at the sound of the supposedly harmless nickname. It brought unwanted recollections from past lovers. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like it, okay? Now, get out of my way.”
With some hesitance, Paul obliged, but his smile faltered momentarily. “You’re cold, Pat.”
Patrick clenched his jaw as he made his way bitterly to his office. Paul’s grinning face imprinted itself into Patrick’s conscience; and despite him thrusting his walkman headphones onto his head and playing the most vulgar music at full volume, the image refused to go away; as though it had been branded permanently onto the surface of his brain.
He had found it difficult to fall into slumber that night. He eyed the crimson numbers of his alarm clock glowing ominously in the dark, on his bedside table. His morning routine for the following day was sure to be disrupted.
You’re cold, Pat.
The words came out of Evie’s mouth. And the woman that came before her. And the woman that came before her. But now, he could only picture Paul mouthing the phrase with mockery taunting him through his narrowed eyes.
That wasn’t right. It wasn’t mockery at all. Paul said it just like everyone else: with an undertone of disappointment. Of hurt.
But there was something else that concerned Patrick. Paul would now be the only man to acknowledge him as Patrick Bateman in the whole corporation; Jean excluded, for she was a female. It was a dangerous recognition, because it only meant that Paul had drawn an emotional attachment to him.
The thought accompanied him until the morning, where Patrick found that he hadn’t slept for even a full minute. He glared at his alarm clock beside him, which read, 5:37AM.
Exhaling, he sat upright groggily, carding one hand through his hair. Patrick decided he would go about his usual routine, despite his lack of sleep– he would not let Paul get in the way of his personal care. He made his way to the bathroom and reached for the ice pack which he began to tie around his face; a staple technique to make Patrick’s face appear to be more radiant and attractive. But as soon as his cheeks were met with the frosty surface, the phrase echoed through his ears and into his mind:
You’re cold, Pat.
Gritting his teeth, Patrick jerked the icepack off his face and glared at his reflection in the mirror with suppressed frustration. His eyelids were puffy, and his gaze was heavy. He was sure to be laughed at as soon as he were to enter the building. And but who to blame?
Patrick smothered moisturiser under his eyes and hoped for the best, making his way to the living room to commence his routine circuits. He would tear that bastard Paul’s tie from his very neck as soon as his eyes catch sight of his figure, wrapping the fabric firmly so that it grazed his windpipe, an ecstatic pleasure overwhelming Patrick as his ears caught the delicious sounds of Paul choking on his own blood, begging for dear life, pleading him to stop.
Yet, there was something inside him that urged him not to do so. It was subtle, like the gentle flicker of a candlelight, but Patrick felt it. He felt as though he didn’t want to hurt Paul.
He clenched his eyelids shut, grasping the sides of the porcelain sink in despair. It was happening again. His victims draw such attachments to him, and they get in the way of Patrick’s business.
He knew he couldn’t afford to take such matters into consideration. It had to be done. It burnt inside him knowing that Paul was well and alive, stealing everything that was to belong to him.
He tied the icepack around his face. It would be done, regardless. Paul would die at Patrick’s hands.