I'm Not Gay

15

Harry didn’t want to attend Zayn’s youngest brother’s twentieth birthday.

It was hardly the first Malik family party he had been invited to. He usually liked them quite a bit. The Maliks were a loud, close-knit, boisterous family, and they were always warm toward him. But it was different this time.

After what happened a few weeks ago at the Maliks movie night, Harry had been avoiding their house, not wanting to be reminded of the line he and Zayn had briefly crossed. Not that it had stopped him from having sex with Zayn at least every other day, but at least they’d been behaving. Sort of.

After the movie night, Zayn had seemed even more determined not to mix their friendship and their sex life, to the point that sometimes it felt like he was a completely different person when he fucked Harry—a person that disappeared as soon as the sex was over. 

It was really, really fucking with Harry’s head, making him uncertain about their friendship. The word friendship felt horribly inadequate. He wasn’t even sure they were friends anymore. Zayn no longer seemed inclined to share his thoughts, just looking at Harry with that unreadable expression that had become very familiar to Harry and drove him absolutely crazy.

Zayn fucking drove him crazy, full stop. Half of the time, Harry missed his best mate and their comfortable, companionable dynamic, the trust between them. The problem was, when Zayn was in his best mate mode,   Harry still felt unsatisfied, craving things a friend wouldn’t give him. It was a total mindfuck.

So considering how shaky and weird his relationship with Zayn had been lately, Harry felt very awkward at the Maliks party, unsure of his place among them, a way he’d never been before. As Zayn’s best friend, he’d taken part in a lot of the Maliks family events over the years, but Harry wasn’t certain that he was still Zayn’s friend, much less his best one. 

Not to mention that Harry hadn’t exactly been eager to finally meet Brad the Prat: Zayn always invited a plus one to a family event if he was dating someone. But Harry couldn’t beg off the party: Miles had personally called and invited him, and Harry hadn’t managed to come up with an excuse not to go.

Now he was fucking regretting it.
Harry shot another sideways glance at the short, dark-haired bloke who was laughing with Zayn. Apparently, Brad the Prat was very much real and not someone Zayn had made up, as Harry had been starting to think. He really was the definition of Zayn’s type: a petite twink, with a slim build and pert ass, blond hair and dark doe eyes, and a never-ending supply of clever remarks. Basically, he was everything Harry wasn’t. 

Harry felt…he felt weird, uncomfortable in his own skin as he watched Brad the Prat share law school jokes with Zayn that flew right over Harry’s head.

He hated it, hated how ungainly and big he felt compared to that dainty little prick, how stupid and uneducated he felt—was—compared to him. He hated that Zayn clearly liked the prat, his soft amusement ever-present as he talked to Brad.

Pursing his lips, Harry turned away—and locked eyes with Tristan DuVal, who had apparently been watching him.

Harry mouthed, “What?”

Tristan just shrugged, his blue-green eyes sharp and assessing. Harry averted his gaze. Successful people like Tristan DuVal always made him feel uncomfortable around them. Tristan was practically the same age as him, but he was a millionaire, a former football star, and the owner of his own fashion line. Harry always felt so bloody inadequate in his presence it wasn’t even funny.

His dislike of Tristan DuVal had nothing to do with the fact that Zayn used to be into him. Harry didn’t feel any enmity toward Zayn’s dates. He’d never attempted to compete with them. There was nothing to compete over: he was the best friend who rolled his eyes and ribbed Zayn about his fleeting infatuations and inability to commit to anyone.