I'm Not Gay

13

He didn’t know how long he sat like that when the door behind him budged. “Harry? You there?” 

Springing to his feet, Harry walked to the sink and splashed cool water over his flushed face.

Behind him, the door opened and closed. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Zayn,” Harry managed, without turning around.

A hand touched his shoulder. “Look at me.”

Harry snorted a laugh. “I’d rather not.”

“Why?” 

Because you’re the last fucking person I need to be around right now. 

“Just go, man,” Harry said tightly. He felt fragile, worn thin at the edges, something horrible building in his chest, a desperate need that was quickly becoming overwhelming. He knew if he looked at Zayn now, he would do something stupid. Something he would regret.

“Look at me,” Zayn said, firmer. “Harry.”

Against his better judgment, Harry looked at him in the mirror.

Zayn had a deep frown on his face, his expression impossible to read as their eyes met in the mirror. There was nothing friendly about Zayn’s expression, his face still closed off. This was the hard-eyed man he had been sleeping with, not his laid-back best friend. Harry still needed him.

He didn’t know what was written on his face, but something flickered in Zayn’s eyes and Zayn’s hands settled on his arms. Harry shuddered and sagged back against Zayn, suppressing a whimper rising in his throat. He closed his eyes as Zayn’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him in tighter.

This shouldn’t have felt any different from the hundreds of hugs they’d shared over the years. But they’d never hugged like this, with Zayn enclosing him in his arms from behind. Bros didn’t hug like this. Best friends didn’t hug like this. It didn’t feel friendly at all. This felt a lot closer to their dynamic during sex. Except they hadn’t had sex that day and they were in their old classmate’s fancy loo, with dozens of people just outside the door.

Harry tried to make himself pull away, but he couldn’t. His knees felt disgustingly weak, his body melting back into Zayn’s. He just…he just wanted to be held, for a little while. He wanted to feel good, and this felt good.

Part of him was disgusted and embarrassed by his behavior—he really was behaving like a needy girlfriend— but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from Zayn’s solid, reassuring presence behind him, around him. 

“Has anyone said anything?” Zayn murmured against his ear. “Anyone upset you?”

Harry shook his head, rubbing his cheek against Zayn’s. He smelled so good. Harry didn’t know when he’d stopped being freaked out by the feel of stubble against his skin, but right now it just felt good. He wanted more. He squirmed back against Zayn, trying to be closer to him, and made a pleased sound when Zayn’s arms around him tightened.

He felt Zayn sigh. “Haz,” he said, his voice strained.  “Do you enjoy fucking with my head?”

“What do you mean?” Harry said, his brows furrowing. He opened his eyes and looked at Zayn in the mirror.

Zayn wasn’t looking at him, his jaw set into tight lines. “Sometimes I really fucking hate you,” he said quietly.

Harry frowned, utterly confused by Zayn’s words. They made no sense, considering that Zayn’s arms were still wrapped around him. But then he realized what it must have been about. So he had been right, after all. Zayn really was sick of him.

“Right,” he said awkwardly, freeing himself from Zayn’s arms. “Look, I’m—I’m sorry for being such a mess. I know you must be tired of dealing with my….” He gave a weak laugh. “I know I can be obnoxious, and needy, and… yeah.” 

Zayn’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Harry looked down. “Like, I get it—I’m a mess, and I’m kinda immature and stupid and... Everyone gets sick of me.”

“What the fuck, Harry?” Zayn tipped his chin up and made Harry look at him. “You can be a bit of an idiot sometimes, but you aren’t stupid. There’s nothing bloody wrong with you. Got it?” There was the familiar look of exasperation in Zayn’s eyes, and it was unmistakably fond.

A smile tugged at Harry’s lips. Before he could think twice, he lunged forward and pecked Zayn on the mouth. They both froze.

Slowly, very slowly, Harry pulled back and stared at Zayn with wide eyes.
Zayn’s expression was very strange. 

“Right,” Harry said with a chuckle. “That was weird, yeah? Let’s pretend I didn’t do that—”

Zayn shoved him against the sink and kissed him. Harry gasped, his knees turning into jelly. He grabbed the edge of the sink, his eyes slipping shut. He could only hold on and let Zayn devour his mouth, small sounds leaving his lips as he sucked on Zayn’s tongue. Bloody hell, he hated this, hated how overwhelmed and helpless he felt. It was just a kiss. A kiss. He wasn’t some dainty virgin girl—he was a man, as big as Zayn—but his body refused to do anything but take, and melt, and want. Fuck, he was hard. He was hard just from kissing, what the hell.

Finally, after what felt like forever—and not nearly long enough—Zayn stopped kissing him and looked at him with dark, glazed eyes. “Pull my cock out.”

Harry licked his moist lips. They felt puffy. “Are you crazy? There are people just outside the door.” His voice didn’t even sound like his own, hoarse and breathless.

Zayn pushed their crotches tighter, making Harry gasp at the feel of his erection against his own.

“I locked it. Pull my cock out.”

Harry glared at him, his stomach clenching. “There’s no way we’re fucking here.”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Zayn said, watching him with hooded eyes. “You’re going to pull my cock out and wank me off.”

Harry stared at him with wide eyes. This wasn’t the deal. Every time they’d had sex, it always ended with Zayn’s cock in his ass—which was the original reason they’d started fooling around. Giving Zayn a handjob just for the sake of it would be…it would be huge. It would be gay. There would be no going back from it.

Harry started shaking his head when Zayn leaned in and said into his ear, “Come on, Baby. I know you’re desperate for me, but you can wait until we get home, right? I’ll fuck you nice and hard, until your pussy is sopping wet and sore from my cock.”

Harry shivered, a whimper rising in his throat. Slipping a hand between them, he tugged at the zipper of Zayn’s trousers with shaking fingers until his hand finally closed around Zayn’s hot erection. He stroked it fast and hard as Zayn whispered filth into his ear, saying what a good girl he was, how good his hand felt, how badly Zayn wanted to spread Zayn’s legs right there and push into his hungry little pussy. It was humiliating. It was emasculating. It was stupidly arousing.

Harry found himself grinding helplessly against Harry’s hard thigh until his vision went white and he came in his fucking pants. He didn’t even notice Zayn coming, too, but he must have: Harry’s hand was sticky and Zayn’s cock was softening in his hand. They both were breathing hard, wrapped in a half-embrace. Harry was glad for the hard sink behind him or he would have likely fallen over. 

At last, Zayn cleared his throat and stepped back. He tucked his cock in, zipped up, and washed his hands. Finally, he looked at Harry. Something flashed through his eyes.

“You look like a mess, Haz,” he said, his voice light and amused, as if he wasn’t the man who’d just taken Harry apart with nothing but filthy words. So his best mate was back.

Dazedly, Harry looked down at the wet patch on his jeans and made a face. It was a good thing his jeans were dark.

He turned to the mirror and tried to make himself presentable, determined to act as if nothing weird had happened. Because nothing had.