Human Debris (1/1)
Title: Human Debris
Author: new_evolution
Summary: Patrick observes people's lives from a distance, until one of his subjects gets up close and personal. (Very AU.)
Rating: R (language, sexual references)
Author's Note: I'm...not quite sure how I feel about this one. Anyway, it was inspired in part by normalhumanbein's awesome story in which Pete breaks into people's cars just to look inside them.
"Janitor on the night shift" is not exactly a glamorous job title, but Patrick enjoys it well enough. He loves the stillness of the office building at two a.m., silent except for the buzzing of the few fluorescent lights that have been left on. He loves the freedom from having to talk to anybody. Most of all, he loves the things he learns from dealing with people's trash.
He likes to make up people's life stories based on the scraps they leave behind. In one guy's trash, he finds a few memos with drawings--not half-bad ones--in the margins, and he imagines someone whose parents wouldn't pay for him to go to art school and forced him to get a normal job, leaving him to spend his lunch breaks sketching as though his life depends upon it and trying to work up the nerve to spend part of his next paycheck on a box of oil pastels. When the small pieces of newspaper littering the floor beneath the chair of a woman in upper management are revealed to be personal ads, he pictures her as someone who's punched her way through the glass ceiling only to find how empty it is up there, hating herself for not letting her career be enough. Sad stories, mostly, but they keep Patrick's mind busy.
Nothing, though, compares to the time he finds someone's life story already written down for him.
The nameplate on the desk reads Peter Wentz. Aside from the computer and a wedding photograph in a frame, the desktop is empty and impeccably neat. Patrick immediately thinks that whoever keeps their workspace that clean on the surface must be hiding something beneath it.
He argues with his own curiosity for a minute or two. It is definitely not ethical to look in people's drawers, but no one's here to catch him, and it's not all that much worse than looking in their trash, and you kind of have to look at it if you want to empty it, which is part of his job and all.
The top drawer contains nothing more interesting than an assortment of writing utensils. In the second, he hits what might be paydirt: a small, black, leather-bound book, mysteriously nondescript. Patrick struggles with his conscience for all of two seconds before picking it up, telling himself it's probably just a day planner.
On the contrary, the first page is filled with cramped but neat handwriting. It's dated from about six months ago; Patrick flips forward to see how far they go, and the pages don't go blank until about halfway through. The last entry is from yesterday. He sits down in the desk chair, turns back to the beginning, and starts to read.
I feel like my life is falling apart and I don't know why. I'm married, I have a good job, I'm right where I always wanted to be, so why am I in this constant state of panic? I thought writing things down would maybe help so I bought this. My thoughts might be easier to understand once I get them out where I can see them. Really I wish I had someone to talk to but blank pages will have to do for now because I don't have any real friends at work or outside it and whenever I try to bring it up to Justine she starts looking at me funny and I lose my nerve and stop talking. Is it normal to be that nervous around your own wife? Something to think about.
The writing continues like that, with few commas and even fewer paragraph breaks, until Patrick comes to the end of the entry and realizes he should get back to work. He replaces the book in the drawer, trying to remember exactly how it was positioned, and finishes what little cleaning needs to be done before leaving the office.
---
He's back the next night, and he makes no pretense--why should he, nobody's watching--before heading straight for the desk drawer with the diary in it. He reads a few more entries, all containing mundane happenings and vague discontent, before coming across a more interesting one.
There's this guy who works here who seems different from the others. He wears a suit like he knows he looks good in it, not like most guys who wear them because they have to, and he laughs a lot and when he smiles it looks real. I stare at him whenever I see him and sometimes I wonder if that makes me...I can't even write it.
Gay. The man is clearly gay and scared to death. Oh, this is good. Patrick grins to himself and keeps reading.
Is this what the problem's been all along? I guess it would make sense, kind of. But it's like I'm too deep into the life I'm in, not like in college where if I'd figured it out then I could have just gone from there. Seems like it's too late now.
Next entry:
Oh god, I don't even know why but I bought some things I shouldn't have bought and the sad part is now I know it's really true. If anybody finds them I could be fired or worse but at least now I have something to do here while things are slow. If I had any brains I'd bring them home but I think I'd die if Justine found them so here they stay.
Patrick, mildly confused, starts opening drawers on a whim. In the bottom one, buried beneath a stack of finance-related papers, are a few magazines of a certain nature.
Pulsing Shafts Monthly. Nice. Patrick gingerly pulls back the cover, and, yes, the pages stick together. He gags a little and slams the drawer shut.
---
Over the course of the next few nights, Patrick finishes the remaining entries and thereafter checks back for new ones whenever he's there. Every now and then, despite himself, he feels a twinge of sympathy for this closeted businessman. One night he reads:
Justine's been talking about wanting kids and it scares me. I don't know how to tell her that we can't. Marriage is one thing but I can't bring children into a family where they'll grow up never knowing what kind of person their father really is. I just keep telling her I'm not ready but she keeps saying how we've been married for three years and we finally have enough money to support someone other than ourselves and her biological clock is ticking and blah blah blah. My excuses are running out and I'm afraid she'll suspect things. Sometimes I think I'll just tell her but then my throat closes up on me.
Patrick spends the rest of the night trying not to think about that.
---
Some days later, Patrick is halfway into the latest entry, sitting in Peter's swivel chair with his feet propped against the edge of the desk, when someone walks in.
"Who the fuck are you?" The man, who Patrick figures must be Peter (he looks like the guy in the wedding photo--short, dark, cute) gapes at him in open fury with just a hint of fear in it.
"The question," Patrick replies coolly, "is what are you doing in your office at two in the morning?"
"I left my wallet here, not that it's any of your fucking business. What are you doing here?" He notices the cart of cleaning supplies. "Are you the fucking janitor?" Patrick surveys him calmly over the top of the diary, until Pete yanks it away. "You shouldn't have found this, let alone read it. I could have you fired."
Patrick snorts. "As you so astutely observed, I'm the fucking janitor. You think I give a shit? Anyway, even if I did, do you really want to be threatening the job security of someone who's found your gay porn?" He smirks at Peter for a moment, watching his words sink in.
"Oh. You--oh. You found that?" Pete swipes a hand down his face, from forehead to mouth. "Jesus."
"It's Patrick, actually."
Peter anxiously flips through the diary, as though it holds the answers to save him. "How much of this have you read?"
"All of it. I check nightly for updates. You might have a bestseller on your hands there."
Peter hoists himself onto the edge of the desk and stares at the wall. Somewhere along the line, his expression has changed to one of abject misery. "You know all of it, then," he says quietly. "You know every detail of my fucking pathetic life." He's biting his lip and blinking vigorously. The only thing more depressing than seeing someone break down in tears, Patrick realizes, is watching them try desperately not to.
"Hey," Patrick says. "Look at both of us. Who's more pathetic, the thirtysomething closet fag with the dysfunctional marriage, or the guy who gets his kicks reading about it? I'll give you a hint. One of us is fat and balding at 24, and it's not you."
Peter wipes harshly at his eyes. In a last-ditch effort to forestall the inevitable, Patrick tries again. "Okay, since the self-deprecating humor clearly isn't working, how about a blowjob? I know that always cheers me up."
Peter starts to sob. Patrick decides it might be time to shut up.
"I could deal with all of this," Peter chokes out, "if it weren't for the fact that now someone knows about it."
"I'm not gonna blackmail you, okay?"
"It's not even that. Just knowing that my outlets aren't even mine anymore...."
Patrick points out, "You wrote yourself that the diary was a substitute for telling someone. I mean, if you wanted to talk, I'd listen."
Peter shakes his head. "There's no point." He wipes his nose on his sleeve, looking like nothing so much as a child in a suit. "I have nothing left to say."
"Let me ask you something, then. Did you ever consider just...ending it all? Wait, that sounds wrong. I don't mean kill yourself, I mean come out to your wife, quit your stupid job, start a new life that isn't so goddamned empty?"
"Even if I were brave enough to do that, I don't know how I'd get along afterwards. I've never been alone before, you know?"
Patrick laughs a little. "Hey, man, I'm no psychologist or anything, but I know loneliness when I see it, and trust me, it'd be pretty hard to get any lonelier than you are now."
Peter gazes at him with a kind of melancholy intensity. "Do you think we need each other?"
"Um...you lost me."
"Lonely people like us, do you think we need each other's company? Maybe we were meant to find one another."
Patrick shrugs. "All the lonely people, where do they all come from? Look, Pete, I'm in no mood for philosophizing." He gets up and heads for his cart, but Peter jumps down from the desk and grabs his arm. "Okay, I'm not big on physical contact to begin with, much less from someone I barely know, so if you could just...." He tries to pull free, but Pete won't let go.
"But you do know me," he says in the type of quiet voice that catches your attention better than a shout. "You're the only person in the world who does." And he's leaning forward, and his eyes are sliding shut....
Red flags go up in Patrick's head. They have Ill-Advised Hookup Imminent written on them. "Whoa. Hey. Pete, Peter, whatever you go by--you do not want to kiss me. I'm creepy, remember? And fat. Creepy and fat. Not much else to it, really. Seriously, Pete, back off."
"You offered me a blowjob earlier, and now you won't accept a kiss?"
"I'm pretty sure I was joking. How about you don't cheat on your wife, and I go back to cleaning offices?"
"Five minutes ago you were telling me to leave my wife."
"I said tell her you're gay, not have some sleazy little secret tryst in your office! I'm not gonna become a character in your soap opera when all I wanted was to watch it."
"Soap opera, huh? And here I thought you were reading my diary because you actually cared about me. No such luck, I guess." He grabs the book along with his forgotten wallet on his way out the door. "Find a new source of entertainment. I'm going home."
Patrick thinks about calling after him as he walks down the hallway. Instead, he waits until he can't hear footfalls anymore, then goes through the desk, subtracting a few things and adding others.
---
The next day at work is slow. Peter gets bored and opens the bottom drawer of his desk to find...oh no.
The drawer is empty except for a note that says, You'll thank me later. Ten minutes after that, Peter is called into his boss's office. He doesn't need to wonder why.
That afternoon, as he's cleaning out his desk, Peter finds another note tucked away in back of the top drawer. This one has a phone number on it, and the words, Don't hate me until you call me.
---
Patrick is actually surprised when the phone call comes. He's spent the whole day not letting himself look forward to it.
"Hey." He tries to sound casual. "Fired yet?"
"Yeah. And...I told Justine why."
"Ah."
"Know any good hotels?"
"302 Sheffield, apartment 4B."
"Is that...?"
"Mine."
For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of static. "It's free," Patrick adds helpfully.
Peter's voice comes back all soft and self-conscious. "You really want me there?"
Patrick covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand to block out his sigh of relief.
---
Peter shows up in about half an hour, looking slightly rumpled, with a touch of five-o'-clock shadow. Patrick dispenses with greetings and pulls him in by the back of his neck, crashing their lips together. He takes Peter's hand, the one that isn't holding his suitcase, and walks backward, leading him into the apartment. He doesn't stop kissing him until they're standing in the middle of the living room.
"I. Um." Peter laughs, a bit incredulously. "Wow."
Patrick sweeps his hand in a semicircle, presenting the dingy, fourth-floor walkup he calls home. "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life."
Author: new_evolution
Summary: Patrick observes people's lives from a distance, until one of his subjects gets up close and personal. (Very AU.)
Rating: R (language, sexual references)
Author's Note: I'm...not quite sure how I feel about this one. Anyway, it was inspired in part by normalhumanbein's awesome story in which Pete breaks into people's cars just to look inside them.
"Janitor on the night shift" is not exactly a glamorous job title, but Patrick enjoys it well enough. He loves the stillness of the office building at two a.m., silent except for the buzzing of the few fluorescent lights that have been left on. He loves the freedom from having to talk to anybody. Most of all, he loves the things he learns from dealing with people's trash.
He likes to make up people's life stories based on the scraps they leave behind. In one guy's trash, he finds a few memos with drawings--not half-bad ones--in the margins, and he imagines someone whose parents wouldn't pay for him to go to art school and forced him to get a normal job, leaving him to spend his lunch breaks sketching as though his life depends upon it and trying to work up the nerve to spend part of his next paycheck on a box of oil pastels. When the small pieces of newspaper littering the floor beneath the chair of a woman in upper management are revealed to be personal ads, he pictures her as someone who's punched her way through the glass ceiling only to find how empty it is up there, hating herself for not letting her career be enough. Sad stories, mostly, but they keep Patrick's mind busy.
Nothing, though, compares to the time he finds someone's life story already written down for him.
The nameplate on the desk reads Peter Wentz. Aside from the computer and a wedding photograph in a frame, the desktop is empty and impeccably neat. Patrick immediately thinks that whoever keeps their workspace that clean on the surface must be hiding something beneath it.
He argues with his own curiosity for a minute or two. It is definitely not ethical to look in people's drawers, but no one's here to catch him, and it's not all that much worse than looking in their trash, and you kind of have to look at it if you want to empty it, which is part of his job and all.
The top drawer contains nothing more interesting than an assortment of writing utensils. In the second, he hits what might be paydirt: a small, black, leather-bound book, mysteriously nondescript. Patrick struggles with his conscience for all of two seconds before picking it up, telling himself it's probably just a day planner.
On the contrary, the first page is filled with cramped but neat handwriting. It's dated from about six months ago; Patrick flips forward to see how far they go, and the pages don't go blank until about halfway through. The last entry is from yesterday. He sits down in the desk chair, turns back to the beginning, and starts to read.
I feel like my life is falling apart and I don't know why. I'm married, I have a good job, I'm right where I always wanted to be, so why am I in this constant state of panic? I thought writing things down would maybe help so I bought this. My thoughts might be easier to understand once I get them out where I can see them. Really I wish I had someone to talk to but blank pages will have to do for now because I don't have any real friends at work or outside it and whenever I try to bring it up to Justine she starts looking at me funny and I lose my nerve and stop talking. Is it normal to be that nervous around your own wife? Something to think about.
The writing continues like that, with few commas and even fewer paragraph breaks, until Patrick comes to the end of the entry and realizes he should get back to work. He replaces the book in the drawer, trying to remember exactly how it was positioned, and finishes what little cleaning needs to be done before leaving the office.
---
He's back the next night, and he makes no pretense--why should he, nobody's watching--before heading straight for the desk drawer with the diary in it. He reads a few more entries, all containing mundane happenings and vague discontent, before coming across a more interesting one.
There's this guy who works here who seems different from the others. He wears a suit like he knows he looks good in it, not like most guys who wear them because they have to, and he laughs a lot and when he smiles it looks real. I stare at him whenever I see him and sometimes I wonder if that makes me...I can't even write it.
Gay. The man is clearly gay and scared to death. Oh, this is good. Patrick grins to himself and keeps reading.
Is this what the problem's been all along? I guess it would make sense, kind of. But it's like I'm too deep into the life I'm in, not like in college where if I'd figured it out then I could have just gone from there. Seems like it's too late now.
Next entry:
Oh god, I don't even know why but I bought some things I shouldn't have bought and the sad part is now I know it's really true. If anybody finds them I could be fired or worse but at least now I have something to do here while things are slow. If I had any brains I'd bring them home but I think I'd die if Justine found them so here they stay.
Patrick, mildly confused, starts opening drawers on a whim. In the bottom one, buried beneath a stack of finance-related papers, are a few magazines of a certain nature.
Pulsing Shafts Monthly. Nice. Patrick gingerly pulls back the cover, and, yes, the pages stick together. He gags a little and slams the drawer shut.
---
Over the course of the next few nights, Patrick finishes the remaining entries and thereafter checks back for new ones whenever he's there. Every now and then, despite himself, he feels a twinge of sympathy for this closeted businessman. One night he reads:
Justine's been talking about wanting kids and it scares me. I don't know how to tell her that we can't. Marriage is one thing but I can't bring children into a family where they'll grow up never knowing what kind of person their father really is. I just keep telling her I'm not ready but she keeps saying how we've been married for three years and we finally have enough money to support someone other than ourselves and her biological clock is ticking and blah blah blah. My excuses are running out and I'm afraid she'll suspect things. Sometimes I think I'll just tell her but then my throat closes up on me.
Patrick spends the rest of the night trying not to think about that.
---
Some days later, Patrick is halfway into the latest entry, sitting in Peter's swivel chair with his feet propped against the edge of the desk, when someone walks in.
"Who the fuck are you?" The man, who Patrick figures must be Peter (he looks like the guy in the wedding photo--short, dark, cute) gapes at him in open fury with just a hint of fear in it.
"The question," Patrick replies coolly, "is what are you doing in your office at two in the morning?"
"I left my wallet here, not that it's any of your fucking business. What are you doing here?" He notices the cart of cleaning supplies. "Are you the fucking janitor?" Patrick surveys him calmly over the top of the diary, until Pete yanks it away. "You shouldn't have found this, let alone read it. I could have you fired."
Patrick snorts. "As you so astutely observed, I'm the fucking janitor. You think I give a shit? Anyway, even if I did, do you really want to be threatening the job security of someone who's found your gay porn?" He smirks at Peter for a moment, watching his words sink in.
"Oh. You--oh. You found that?" Pete swipes a hand down his face, from forehead to mouth. "Jesus."
"It's Patrick, actually."
Peter anxiously flips through the diary, as though it holds the answers to save him. "How much of this have you read?"
"All of it. I check nightly for updates. You might have a bestseller on your hands there."
Peter hoists himself onto the edge of the desk and stares at the wall. Somewhere along the line, his expression has changed to one of abject misery. "You know all of it, then," he says quietly. "You know every detail of my fucking pathetic life." He's biting his lip and blinking vigorously. The only thing more depressing than seeing someone break down in tears, Patrick realizes, is watching them try desperately not to.
"Hey," Patrick says. "Look at both of us. Who's more pathetic, the thirtysomething closet fag with the dysfunctional marriage, or the guy who gets his kicks reading about it? I'll give you a hint. One of us is fat and balding at 24, and it's not you."
Peter wipes harshly at his eyes. In a last-ditch effort to forestall the inevitable, Patrick tries again. "Okay, since the self-deprecating humor clearly isn't working, how about a blowjob? I know that always cheers me up."
Peter starts to sob. Patrick decides it might be time to shut up.
"I could deal with all of this," Peter chokes out, "if it weren't for the fact that now someone knows about it."
"I'm not gonna blackmail you, okay?"
"It's not even that. Just knowing that my outlets aren't even mine anymore...."
Patrick points out, "You wrote yourself that the diary was a substitute for telling someone. I mean, if you wanted to talk, I'd listen."
Peter shakes his head. "There's no point." He wipes his nose on his sleeve, looking like nothing so much as a child in a suit. "I have nothing left to say."
"Let me ask you something, then. Did you ever consider just...ending it all? Wait, that sounds wrong. I don't mean kill yourself, I mean come out to your wife, quit your stupid job, start a new life that isn't so goddamned empty?"
"Even if I were brave enough to do that, I don't know how I'd get along afterwards. I've never been alone before, you know?"
Patrick laughs a little. "Hey, man, I'm no psychologist or anything, but I know loneliness when I see it, and trust me, it'd be pretty hard to get any lonelier than you are now."
Peter gazes at him with a kind of melancholy intensity. "Do you think we need each other?"
"Um...you lost me."
"Lonely people like us, do you think we need each other's company? Maybe we were meant to find one another."
Patrick shrugs. "All the lonely people, where do they all come from? Look, Pete, I'm in no mood for philosophizing." He gets up and heads for his cart, but Peter jumps down from the desk and grabs his arm. "Okay, I'm not big on physical contact to begin with, much less from someone I barely know, so if you could just...." He tries to pull free, but Pete won't let go.
"But you do know me," he says in the type of quiet voice that catches your attention better than a shout. "You're the only person in the world who does." And he's leaning forward, and his eyes are sliding shut....
Red flags go up in Patrick's head. They have Ill-Advised Hookup Imminent written on them. "Whoa. Hey. Pete, Peter, whatever you go by--you do not want to kiss me. I'm creepy, remember? And fat. Creepy and fat. Not much else to it, really. Seriously, Pete, back off."
"You offered me a blowjob earlier, and now you won't accept a kiss?"
"I'm pretty sure I was joking. How about you don't cheat on your wife, and I go back to cleaning offices?"
"Five minutes ago you were telling me to leave my wife."
"I said tell her you're gay, not have some sleazy little secret tryst in your office! I'm not gonna become a character in your soap opera when all I wanted was to watch it."
"Soap opera, huh? And here I thought you were reading my diary because you actually cared about me. No such luck, I guess." He grabs the book along with his forgotten wallet on his way out the door. "Find a new source of entertainment. I'm going home."
Patrick thinks about calling after him as he walks down the hallway. Instead, he waits until he can't hear footfalls anymore, then goes through the desk, subtracting a few things and adding others.
---
The next day at work is slow. Peter gets bored and opens the bottom drawer of his desk to find...oh no.
The drawer is empty except for a note that says, You'll thank me later. Ten minutes after that, Peter is called into his boss's office. He doesn't need to wonder why.
That afternoon, as he's cleaning out his desk, Peter finds another note tucked away in back of the top drawer. This one has a phone number on it, and the words, Don't hate me until you call me.
---
Patrick is actually surprised when the phone call comes. He's spent the whole day not letting himself look forward to it.
"Hey." He tries to sound casual. "Fired yet?"
"Yeah. And...I told Justine why."
"Ah."
"Know any good hotels?"
"302 Sheffield, apartment 4B."
"Is that...?"
"Mine."
For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of static. "It's free," Patrick adds helpfully.
Peter's voice comes back all soft and self-conscious. "You really want me there?"
Patrick covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand to block out his sigh of relief.
---
Peter shows up in about half an hour, looking slightly rumpled, with a touch of five-o'-clock shadow. Patrick dispenses with greetings and pulls him in by the back of his neck, crashing their lips together. He takes Peter's hand, the one that isn't holding his suitcase, and walks backward, leading him into the apartment. He doesn't stop kissing him until they're standing in the middle of the living room.
"I. Um." Peter laughs, a bit incredulously. "Wow."
Patrick sweeps his hand in a semicircle, presenting the dingy, fourth-floor walkup he calls home. "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life."