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The ceiling tiles bleed into one another, the edges blurring and running together until it is just a single, cream colored surface, twisting around itself in a nauseating display. Swank stares up at it blankly, doing his best to ignore his lunch trying to claw its way up his digestive system. Voices from the Strip filter through an open window. The heat comes in as well, still oppressive even as the sun begins to set. Swank breathes in slowly through his nose, lets his head fall to the side. His vision spins for a moment before clearing and landing on the half empty whiskey bottle that sits within arms reach. He stares at it for a moment, considering, before turning back towards the ceiling. Breathes out.
Benny is gone again. This is not unusual. Benny leaves often, to get drunk or high or hurt or horny; Swank doesn’t care. He just wishes Benny would give some warning before just up and fucking leaving, because Swank is always the one who ends up carrying the slack. He rubs a hand over his face. Christ. I should be getting up. He closes his eyes and imagines himself standing, smoothing his hair back, heading towards the door. He opens his eyes. The ceiling spins.
A bark of laughter crawls in through the window, pushing through the cotton growing in Swank’s brain. The room is starting to darken as twilight sets in. Vaguely, he is aware of the casino signs beginning to light up, another signal that he has a job he should be doing. He swallows. Benny is gone again, god knows where, and god knows when he’s coming back. One of these days he won’t come back at all, will disappear into the wasteland forever, and Swank will still be stuck here, in this city he didn’t want, making excuses for Benny for the rest of his fucking life.
Swank lurches upwards, suddenly furious, and the room spins violently. He pays it no mind, eyes unfocused. What right did Benny have, pulling this shit time after time? Swank hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t asked to change their clothes or speech or names, hadn’t asked to live in this stupid casino in this stupid city, but he hadn’t opposed it, because Benny wanted it more than anything, and Swank never could say no to him. And now Benny’s fucked off and left Swank to cover for him, and Swank is the one dealing with it all and keeping it running. He’s sick of it. He gropes angrily around for the whiskey, wincing at the taste. This time , he promises himself. This time when he gets back I’m gonna tell him enough is enough, and he can deal with the fallout on his own.
He knows he's lying to himself. Knows damn well that when Benny comes back, spouting excuses and half-baked apologies, all it would take is one look at those big, brown eyes and Swank would forgive him. Because, despite knowing that Benny was lying, that it would happen again, that Swank would be trapped in this cycle as long as it would hold, Swank would always forgive him. Shit. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes another swig. Pries his eyes open, sways slightly before slumping back down to the floor, the whiskey sloshing over his hand. Huffs out a breath.
“Maybe it will be different this time,” he says to the ceiling. He doesn’t believe that even a little bit. The ceiling swirls at him, and does not reply.