Chapter Text
Patrick woke up feeling like shit that day. No, it wasn’t about those pompous dickheads at the office, making fools of themselves and acting like they were better than him, nor was it damage to one of his favorite Valentino suits. No, today was different—it was something out of the ordinary for him, worse than a typical rage inducing inconvenience or irritating comment. Today he woke up feeling sick , physically ; his stomach revolted, violently, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up in the toilet instead of on his expensive sheets. After about twenty minutes of upchucking, he finally caught a break, resting his head on his arms for fear of getting ass germs on his flawless face.
Jesus Christ…what did I eat yesterday? I feel so fucking awful…
Patrick was frankly baffled, and perhaps even a little startled, to be brutally honest, about this illness. He couldn’t think of anything that was causing it—at least, not to this severity ; sure, he could have caught a bug from a coworker, but with how great his immune system was he wouldn't expect his body to react so poorly . He was, as per usual, in peak physical condition, despite his recent symptoms—he did his crunches every morning, worked out every day and kept on top of his eating habits like a hawk to a corpse—he was vigilant in counting calories, balancing adequate nutrients in his diet and weighing himself every day. So why was he sick? How could he , the paragon of health and self care, be hunched over the toilet, sick like a dog, hacking his guts up? It didn’t make sense, and it worried him, naturally—when things weren’t normal or going his way, he always began to worry.
“Hey, man. What are you doing in here so early? Bad case of the shits?”
“Oh shut up, Paul,” he cursed, lacking the usual bite to his voice–his tone was instead soft with exhaustion, croaky from all the bile burning his throat.
“No, seriously, what’s wrong? Did you get a stomach bug?”
“I don’t fucking know…” he muttered, his head throbbing as the room began to spin violently around him
“I'll get you some water and a cold cloth.”
“Thanks, Paul.”
“No problem, honey.”
Patrick cringed at that word—honey. Not only was it cheesy and lovey dovey, both things Patrick was not; it was so…intimate. So conjugal. He felt ashamed being called such a thing by another man; it was emasculating and degrading. He wasn’t a queer, Paul wasn’t one either—they were just…roommates. Two guys who happened to live in the same condo, because they enjoyed one another's company. They liked each other in a masculine, brotherly way—-there was nothing weird or homosexual about it. At least, that's what bateman kept telling himself, despite how clearly eager paul was to call it like it was and quit beating about the bush—they were dating. They were boyfriends. Why couldnt Patrick just fucking say it, for crying out loud? It surely wasnt like they were still in the pining, “are-we-arent-we” stage of things—theyd passed that point of ambiguity many make-out sessions, vulnerable moments and sloppy fucks ago. Sure, neither of them wanted to outright say it, but the fact of the matter was this—they were a couple. They liked each other, meaningfully and romantically, and Paul was much more open about this than Bateman was.
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This was the second, perhaps even the third , day that Patrick had woken up sick and nauseous. His stomach was queasy as hell, making him reluctant to even get out of bed to throw up. Nonetheless, he hauled himself up and stumbled into the bathroom, just barely reaching the sink in time before he spewed, violently. His head dully throbbed as the room swam around him, making him want to throw up again from the dizziness.
Dammit…I overdid it on the diapenes, I guess…I didn't even drink last night and I'm still sick.
His legs wobbled, struggling to keep him upright; panicking, he gripped tightly to the counter for stability.
“Patrick? You alright there?”
A kind, masculine voice snapped him out of his daze, making him aware of Paul’s presence; he was standing in the doorway, just staring at him, as if he was afraid to intrude, but still too curious about his condition not to stare like a fucking creep. Normally Patrick wouldn't mind the encroachment of his privacy—not with Paul , anyway—but he was already in a shitty mood and didn’t want him to see him in such a state. It was humiliating, being all sick and weak in front of someone, even someone as trusted as his dear Paul.
“Two days in a row…have you been doing drugs again?”
“No, Paul, I fucking haven’t,” he bit back, irritated that his roommate would instantly jump to such a conclusion. He’d been trying to quit lately, mainly after Paul mentioned that he seemed a bit more angry and distressed when he was doing drugs, and the fact that he didn’t think Patrick was being honest with him hurt. It hurt…a lot, surprisingly. Usually, Patrick didn’t give a shit when people told him to lay off on all the meds, usually deflecting it in some way or just telling them to shut the fuck up and mind their business. He didn’t want to stop, and he didn’t need to, so he wasn’t gonna.
People were just being fuddy duddy and all righteous about it, was all—they just didn’t like that he had access to so many drugs and that they didn’t. They were jealous. That was the only reasonable explanation, because it was a non-problem—it wasnt like he was an addict or something, for fuck’s sake; he did it in moderation. Just a quick valium before work most days, maybe one in the evening, and, on the off occasion that he went out with the guys (which, in truth was at least three times a week, usually more), he’d find some coke and maybe pop a benzodiazepine or two to mitigate any side effects of it, to give him a smooth trip. Sometimes he took a Xanax or two on the side, if he was feeling antsy or needed to numb his mind to get through the day, and he only took, like, three of those. That wasn’t “addiction”. He wasn’t an addict.
Okay, so maybe he was an addict.
But what was so wrong with that? It wasn’t like it would kill him or anything—his balanced diet and frequent exercise helped mitigate any risk; they evened out that scale, returning his body to equilibrium. His good habits cancelled it out. He was healthy . He was balanced . He didn't need to worry about some stupid drug addiction.
However, Paul was starting to think otherwise.