Tyrant

(𝟸𝟸) 𝙾𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢

Weylin's hands are on my waist, his body irrationally crushing mine in the dark. 

And he's kissing me.

His mouth moves against my own, and for some reason, I can't make myself shove him away as he trails his lips from my mouth to my cheek, my jaw, my ear—

"Weylin—Weylin, wait." I whisper as he trails his mouth lower, to my throat, and places small, chilling pecks around my collarbones.

I grip his shoulders hard, knowing deep down in my core that this is wrong, completely wrong. Weylin is a friend.

This is crazy. 

"Weylin, stop." I whisper again, my words a command this time.

He at last pulls up, darkened eyes filled with undeniable fervor—the opposite of the usual carefree, jovial Terminator I had come to adore as my Brother. I stumble back, almost tripping over a jagged piece of concrete, and grip a nearby shelf for balance. 

"I—" My mouth opens and closes to no avail, no words leaving my lips as I watch him, his breathing coming out in irregular pants. 

What the hell was that?

I step back further, aiming to put as much distance between us as possible for clear, coherent thought. Weylin runs a hand through his long hair, and I slowly see that irrational lust fading away into raw, stark realization.

He exhales roughly and presses two fingers to his temple—I work on steadying my thoughts, my breathing, my shock at my friend's behavior. Two shots of vodka couldn't have affected him enough to kiss me like that. 

Is there something more? I think to myself, trying to locate an explanation for Weylin's actions. 

And after a passing minute that feels like an eternity, the man in front of me holds his hands up, palms out, as if surrendering.

His visage is coated in confliction, and his shoulder-length hair shifts around like flattened snow as he shakes his head. "I didn't—I don't...." He stutters, his usual laid-back self a long-gone ghost.

I nod wordlessly, attempting to convey understanding at him and his indecisive actions.

Even though none of it made sense. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I understand." I mumble quickly, feeling stranger than ever but not wanting him to feel guilty for some reason. 

He regrets touching me, too. 

This is insane.

I purse my lips in an attempt to convince myself otherwise. Don't think like that.

With a long exhale, he utters a muted, "Sorry." 

I nod at him again, half convincing myself. "It's okay. You're fine. It was just a mistake."

Weylin turns distraught at that, his white eyes wide as saucers. "That's—it's not what I mean. You're not the issue."

"Don't worry, I know what you mean." I will myself not to stumble as I walk around him, keeping a healthy distance away, and go to the exit of the aisle. Even though I have absolutely no idea what he means. "We should go. And find the rest."

The Terminator—an unhinged, disoriented man that appears to hate his existence at the moment—dips his chin in a silent nod. 

I turn away and stalk out of the aisle, silent as death, and hear his shuffled footsteps echo behind me like a phantom.

Weylin. What got into you?

~~~~~

The guilt-tripped male and I stalk around for a few minutes, but hear no echoes of feet, no shuffling or conversing in any of the aisles or pathways.