Work Text:
Harry’s been haunting the third floor of Grimmauld with a certain ambivalence, oscillating between moods in a way that gives Sirius whiplash. It’s hard to say which version of him is present at any one time, but usually the cadence of the floorboards as he makes his way down the stairs betrays him.
Today: thumping stomps. Pissed off, apparently—at the world or just at Sirius, who’s to tell until he comes winding around the corner, glancing in at the front room where Sirius is sprawled out with half a bottle of whisky and a quarter of a pack of cigs.
Harry eyes the bottle. “It’s two in the afternoon.”
Ah. He’s pissed off at Sirius, then.
“Cheers, dad,” Sirius replies, lazily saluting him with the drink, digging the jab in.
“This is what you’re doing all day, then? Getting wasted and smoking like a chimney?”
Sirius shrugs, lights another cig. “Looks like it.”
Harry’s jaw works. He obviously wants to say more. He looks just like James like this, and Sirius thinks about goading him even more but it’s never the same. Not quite the replica of a reaction he’d get in a draughty dorm amongst a blur of scarlet and gold.
“Right,” Harry ultimately lands on. “I’m going out.”
A quick wave of his fingers, another slurp from the bottle. “I won’t wait up.”
He’s gone in a flash of emerald flame and muttered grumbles, and doesn’t return until the sky outside has settled into somber velvet. The front room is scantily lit, and Harry half-stumbles over the hearth with a hiccup.
Sirius doesn’t speak, just watches as Harry sways on the spot, eyeing Sirius with a look of repine amongst soft green.
“You waited up, then.”
Sirius blows out a ribbon of grey smoke in response.
Harry takes a wobbly step forward. “We could…”
“No.” Sirius shakes his head. “We couldn’t.”
“Just—”
“It’s a bad idea.”
“You still let it happen before.”
True. Stupidly, Sirius has let it happen, a fortnight ago. Harry had dug out an old Quidditch shirt of James’ and Sirius is nothing but a weak, weak man because he couldn’t stop himself from following the emblazoned POTTER around like a lost fucking Crup until he had Harry crowded against the kitchen sink, Sirius’ nose buried in the crook of his neck like maybe he could lick the smell of James, mud and sweat, right from him. He couldn’t, of course. Harry smelt like Sirius’ own cheap shampoo and something distinctly him, but he hadn’t minded Sirius sniffing him like an absolute maniac. Had encouraged it, in fact, choking on a surprised gasp and pressing back on where Sirius had grown hard under his jeans.
Now, in the living room, with Harry looking at him like he might be the answer to what the fuck do you do once you’ve experienced the afterlife… No. It cannot happen again.
“It was a mistake,” Sirius says. “I was drunk.”
“You’re always drunk.”
“Go to bed, Harry.”
This doesn’t do anything to dampen his ire. “Fuck you, dad,” he spits.
His footsteps up the stairs are even louder than the previous downward ones.
***
It’s Sirius’ own fault. Should’ve been more careful with his hiding places, but then again how was he to know that he has a Bloodhound for a godson, who can apparently sniff out small keepsake boxes even when they’ve been stuffed under dodgy floorboards.
Sirius had stood in the doorway, heart in his throat, as Harry looked up at him from the dusty floor and held up a crumpled piece of parchment. “What’s this?”
“It’s nothing.”
Harry had stared down at it, ran his fingertips along the paper folds, and over the lines and dashes of someone that is not quite him. Sirius had wondered—does he see himself? Could he see the curve of his jaw, the dip of one dimple, the muss of hair brushing the rim of his glasses? Sirius could see every single part of him, and has been noticing every single part of him since he came falling back from death and into his own personal Hell.
“It’s my dad,” Harry said, brushing over the ink. He huffed a small laugh. “It’s all of my dad. Christ, Sirius, why do you have naked sketches of my dad?”
What was the answer to that? Well, Harry, when your dad used to sneak off at night with your mum, I used to draw sneaky pictures of him from memories of him changing, or from being in the shower. Yes, exactly, like the world’s biggest pervert. No, of course he didn’t know.
“We were best friends,” he’d replied instead, like that answered anything at all.
The way Harry had looked at him, like he was almost disappointed in his answer. Sirius hadn’t known what to do with that expression, so he hadn’t done anything, just turned and shut himself away in his bedroom, wondering if he’d hidden any more half-naked pictures of James Potter anywhere else around the house.
***
The day after the living room stand-off, Harry goes to war. It’s not the Quidditch shirt this time but worse—a faded burgundy jumper that had also been shoved under the floorboards, now shaken out into fresh air and slipped on over the lean body of a nineteen year old once more. The footsteps down the stairs are lighter today, more focused.
It’s driving Sirius crazy, and Harry knows. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he slides past him in the kitchen, brushing the soft, worn fabric against Sirius’ bare arm, or when he chucks himself down on the sofa, sleeves touching knuckles, and far too close.
Sirius drinks, which is probably the worst idea he’s had, but the situation seems to have spiralled out of control, and he’s not sure how else to handle it if he’s not imbibing unrelentlessly.
They watch TV in the shadowed front room in murky silence, the air honey-thick. Sirius is staring but not really seeing, the light scratch of James’ jumper pin-pricking his skin with every soft exhale Harry makes. He feels itchy, like he can’t sit still, squirming against the cushions and guzzling at the whisky dregs like a man starved.
Eventually, he cracks.
“Take it off.”
Harry blinks at him, confused. “What?”
“You heard.” Sirius grips at the arm of the sofa, trying to ground himself. “Take it off.”
“What the—What?”
Sirius speaks through gritted teeth. “Take. It. Off.”
Harry looks at him for a long moment, expression not one Sirius can easily parse. Then, he stands, his hands move to the hem of the jumper, and in one swift movement it’s up and over his head and off, tossed somewhat carefully on to the armchair next to the sofa.
But now—Shit. Now he’s shirtless, and how is it possible that the smooth expanse of him can look so much like what Sirius used to draw by wandlight behind firmly shut drapes.
“Happy now?” Harry asks, standing in front of him with a small shake to his bravado, a fleeting uncertainty in his expression, like he’s cracked himself open and now wishes he could crawl back into the shell.
“Not really.” Sirius stands before he can think what he’s doing. “Turn around.”
Harry hard swallows, then draws himself up straight. Slowly, he spins.
His skin is even smoother than it looks when Sirius puts his lips to it, right at the top of his spine, when he drags his mouth across the back of Harry’s shoulder blade, moving over every mole, every small scar of silver. Ever softer, still, when Sirius moves to his nape, to push his face against the warm dip behind his ear.
Harry shivers, goosebumps rising on his bare skin, and Sirius uses teeth and tongue on his earlobe, pulling a small groan from his chest.
“Sirius—”
“No talking,” Sirius says. He can’t have him speak, can’t have his name formed by Harry’s voice right now. He grabs Harry by the hips, dimpling his fingers into the ridge of bone, and then round, sliding palms across his belly. He's greeted by another groan, this one louder, when he smoothes his hands up Harry’s chest and pinches at the taut bud of his nipples.
If Sirius closes his eyes he can almost pretend that it’s another Potter he’s touching, that he’s traversing new ground with. Yes, he’s had his hands on James a hundred times, wild limbs playfighting, and arms tossed carelessly around shoulders, and even in slumber, curled atop a mattress connected from shoulder to toes, but nothing like this. Nothing so intentional, so obvious.
Harry’s hair, though. It’s too long. James never wore it this shaggy, was militant at having it cropped at the back. Lily would do it for him, or sometimes Sirius himself, using his wand to carefully edge around James’ ears, nose full of the cotton-warm scent of him in the Gryffindor bathroom. Now, Sirius tugs sharply at the curling strands before him, and Harry lets out a whine, head falling back.
“Too long,” Sirius mutters. “You’re not—”
He stops abruptly, words tripping on his tongue. Fuck. What is he doing? Stomach spinning, sweat beads at the back of his neck, he starts to pull away.
Harry shoots a hand out behind him, iron grip at whatever fabric he can bunch his fist into.
“No,” he says, voice desperate. “Don’t—Don’t leave me like this.”
Maybe Sirius can blame it on the 40% proof, or the fact that his cock hasn’t seen more than his own fist in years. Maybe he can blame it on his canine form, the need to herd, to gather, to keep. Maybe he can just chalk it up to feeling like he’s got a gaping hole where his heart should be ever since he spent that year beyond the Veil.
Maybe there is nothing to blame, nothing to point the finger at, apart from Sirius being half a ghost himself since he lost James.
Eyes screwing shut, his palms edge back, sliding over that fire-warmed skin again. Harry breathes a sigh, body relaxing against Sirius’, as Sirius drops his mouth back to the peak of his shoulder, indenting the skin with a small nip of teeth.
Inside his jeans, his cock strains against the underside of his zip, plumped up nicely from the slow writhe of Harry’s arse. Sirius ruts forward, and Harry takes a step, dragging Sirius with him, and plants a palm on the wall.
“I need—”
“Shh. I know.” Sirius already has his fingers at Harry’s waistband, flicking the button open, pushing his hand inside. When he brushes the weeping head of Harry’s cock, Harry makes a punched-out noise, a needy little exhale, and deliberately drags his arse over the front of Sirius’ jeans.
It’s too awkward, jeans need to be pushed down Harry’s thighs. Boxers, too, bunched under his balls, and then there—Sirius runs a fist firmly down the entire length, revelling in the sticky leak of liquid between his fingers. And he keeps doing it, up, down, again and again, as Harry mutters yes and please and fucking hell, Sirius, and maybe he needs to cast a silencing charm—not because anyone else is around but because it’s making Sirius lose his bloody mind.
“I said no talking, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes flash open at that, at the unfamiliar address from Sirius’ mouth, and he pushes back forcefully against Sirius’ cock. A sharp sting of pain, Sirius hisses, and shoves him with a hand at his shoulder further against the wall.
Kissing his scar against the brick, Harry arches his spine, muscles in his back flexing deliciously on a guttural moan. Sirius is working quick time, hooking his own jeans down, drawing out his cock and rubbing it against the cleft of Harry’s arse as he still wanks Harry with the other. There’s a slow coil of something in his stomach, of want and desire, and it only rockets further around his bloodstream as Harry murmurs magic under his breath, and both Sirius’ hand and cock become slippery with lubrication.
There’s white noise, the dizziness of ecstasy bubbling slowly, as Sirius fits his cock in the crease of Harry’s arse, rutting quicker, all slick and gliding easily, catching slightly at his rim on each pass. Harry’s a babbling mess, jerking into Sirius’ palm, shouting his release into the gaudy wallpaper as he spurts thick white all over Sirius’s hand. He’s still shuddering when Sirius slams him into the wall and frots against him like a man possessed, knuckles bleaching on his shoulders, mouth pressed to the back of his throat. Sirius comes with teeth grazing Harry’s drum-thump of a pulse, nails biting into skin hard enough to draw blood.
There’s an ocean roar in Sirius’ ears, his heart beating out of his chest. His t-shirt is sodden and sticky, as is the small of Harry’s back where Sirius marked him with his release. He extracts his fingers, takes a shaky step away, and watches the muscles in Harry’s back shiver at the loss of contact.
“Sirius—” Harry starts, lifting his head from the wall, beginning to turn.
Maybe all along it’s just that he’s a fucking coward, because Sirius leaves the room on leaden legs, and he doesn’t look back.
***
Sirius does well to avoid Harry for a few days, partaking in his own melancholy haunting of the top floor. His room is kept dark and dank, like that cavern in his chest, and he spends far too much time looping memories behind his eyelids as he lays on musky sheets.
It’s by accident when he does see Harry again, after he thinks he hears the thud of Harry’s feet on the staircase followed by the rush of Floo flames. His own heavy steps see him slope down, and when he’s on the bottom step Harry rounds the corner, colliding into him.
Breath leaves Sirius’ chest on a quick exhale, and not just because of the jar of their bodies against each other, but because Harry has had his hair cut. Sirius grips at the bannister, swaying on the step, as the spit of James stares back, and maybe he really is dead after all because surely no one can survive their heart skipping this many beats.
“Oh,” says Harry, voice flat. “You’ve come out of hiding, then?”
“I wasn’t hiding.” Sirius’ own voice is gravel-rough, throat dry from two days of silence.
“Right. Sure. Just on another bender, I guess?” Harry rolls his eyes. “A typical Tuesday.”
“I’ve not had a drink since—” Since I manhandled you like a fucking maniac.
“Since?” Harry replies. He knows full well, the sardonic lilt to his mouth says so.
“You got your hair cut,” Sirius says instead.
“Yeah. It was too long.”
Sirius offers a small shrug.
“I look like him like this, don’t you think?”
Sirius wets his lips, eyes on an unhelpful drag down Harry’s simple t-shirt and jeans. He replies with a hum, not trusting his mouth to form any sort of response which might be deemed appropriate.
“It’s what you wanted, right?” Harry’s eyes are unfairly green as they look up at him, the only tell that he’s not who Sirius wishes so badly he could be. “It’s who you wanted.”
“You’re not him.”
Taking a step closer, Harry’s directly below him, his feet on the wooden floorboards of the hallway, toes brushing the step where Sirius stands. He reaches out, snags his fingertips in Sirius’s belt loop, crowding so that Sirius almost wobbles back.
“I can close my eyes, if you like.”
Sirius doesn’t know what possesses him to nod, but Harry’s lips twitch in a grin, and then he’s hurriedly pushing down Sirius’ zip and dropping to his knees on the step between Sirius’ feet. He takes out Sirius’ half-hard cock, nuzzles his face into his inner thigh, sighing like it’s what he’s been waiting for all day. When he suckles at the tip, coaxing him into full hardness, Sirius grips a hand into his newly short hair, the other still tensed on the bannister.
True to his word, Harry keeps his eyes cast low. All that can be seen is the flutter of dark eyelashes, the blushy haze spread across his cheekbones, the black hair that Sirius flexes his fingers into with a strangled groan.
It’s wet heat and the glossy glide of Harry’s mouth along every ridge that quickly has Sirius keening, as Harry swallows him deeper with every pass. He doesn’t know where Harry learned to suck cock like this but Merlin fucking Christ it makes Sirius want to wrench the spindles from the staircase in a blind rage. It can’t be this good, shouldn’t be this good, and it really shouldn’t look like he’s being blown by James when Sirius gazes down in awe.
There’s something Harry does, a particular twist of his mouth, that has Sirius unconsciously hitch his hips too violently, and Harry chokes a moan as Sirius’ balance fails him, and he drops backwards onto the step with a huff. It doesn’t deter Harry, glassy-eyed and following Sirius over, head falling back into his lap to reconnect with his aching cock.
“Fucking hell,” Sirius curses, sitting on the step with his cock deep between Harry’s lips, legs spread wide against the bunching material of his jeans so that Harry can settle between them. It must be hurting, the way Harry’s kneeling on the step, but he doesn’t falter, and Sirius cradles his head as he continues his torturous mouth movements.
Harry’s hands slide around Sirius’ thighs, holding him in place as he winds him up up up until Sirius’ spine feels liquid, every bone melted down. Sirius’ hands drops to Harry’s shoulders, wrenching the fabric between his fists, stretching the collar wide, displaying the violet smudges of finger-shaped bruising that decorates Harry’s skin. And fuck, it’s this that rockets Sirius into oblivion, the marks that he gave him, that claim him.
He manages to garble out a quick warning at least, and then he’s flooding salt inside Harry’s mouth, and watching it drip from the corners as Harry tries to swallow it all down.
Harry’s breathing heavily, eyes red-rimmed when he finally looks at Sirius and uses the hem of his t-shirt to wipe at his mouth. He pushes up on the step, like he might do something absolutely absurd like kiss him, and Sirius halts his path with the hand still clinging on to his shoulder.
A dip of his chin. “I’ll—”
Harry shakes his, expression guilty, shifting atop the step. “I’ve already.”
“You’ve—” Sirius tries to look down, see if he can see a wet patch, but Harry’s turning away, evading the gleeful curiosity.
“Fuck off. It’s no big deal.”
Sirius begs to differ, but he still feels too blissed out to move much further. He grins lazily instead.
Harry looks intently at him. “No hiding this time. I can’t—” He sighs. “—I just can’t take it, alright. So don’t.”
A careful nod. “Alright.” But what if it’s not you who I’m hiding from.
***
Remus is in a jovial mood when he visits, chatter full of Tonks and Teddy and whatever Ministry bullshit he’s got occupying him at the moment. Sirius isn’t really listening, tuning straight out at the first mention of the words meeting and paperwork, and then Harry breezes in and it’s even more difficult to concentrate as he’s back in that burgundy jumper, sleeves pushed up his forearms.
They’re happy to see each other, of course, and Remus asks Harry about what he’s been up to, to which Harry doesn’t say giving Sirius head on every available surface in Grimmauld, so at least that’s a positive. They all have another cuppa and a round of biscuits, and Harry nips upstairs to fetch something, when Remus rounds on Sirius immediately, eyes blazing.
“You fucking idiot.”
Sirius blinks over at him in surprise. “What?”
“How long have you been fucking him?”
“I’m not.” There is a small nugget of truth in that, at least.
Remus sighs heavily, shaking his head. “Give over with that. For fuck’s sake, Sirius. You really couldn’t just keep your hands to yourself?”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“I can smell you all over each other.”
“Piss off with your sniffing,” Sirius huffs. “Nothing’s going on.”
And it wasn’t really. Unless you counted a wank against the fridge, or a blowie on the landing, or a good old frot on the sofa. Which, for the purpose of a conversation with Remus, Sirius absolutely didn’t.
Remus rubs a hand over his weary face. “He’s not James, you know?”
“Obviously.”
Remus’ eyebrows raise. “Just because he’s here, looking like him. It’s not… just be real with yourself, okay? Harry is not James.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Moony.”
“I wish I could believe that, but you forget I also know you far too well.”
Harry strides back in, halting when the obvious tension hits him. “Everything alright?”
Remus smiles, all teeth. “Fine, Harry. Everything’s fine. Come and show me what you found.”
When he leaves, Remus pulls Sirius close, arms wrapping around him. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says into the crook of his neck, words dripping with fondness. “And look after yourself, won’t you?”
Sirius does what Sirius always does, nods his agreement and squeezes Remus tightly, ruffling his hair just to piss him off, and throwing some stupid joke through the Floo after him.
Harry’s still at the kitchen table when Sirius returns, his feet kicked up on another chair, limbs loose and lazy in that boyish way he lopes around the house. Sometimes Sirius forgets that Harry’s just nineteen, still a teenager despite already saving the world. Sometimes Sirius forgets that he is no longer nineteen, that just because he lost years to Azkaban and the Veil it doesn't mean the ageing process also ceased to exist.
“He knows then?” Harry says conversationally.
Sirius crosses his arms, leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “He’s a werewolf. Good senses and all of that.”
“He also knows you were in love with my dad.”
Sirius fingers clench into his own biceps. Harry has his head tilted, rocking back on his chair, the infuriating picture of impertinence, and it’s ironic really that he’s never looked so much like James like this, all cocksure charm. Sirius smirks, because how did he deal with James when he was like this, when he pushed, when he fished for a reaction?
He pushed right back.
“The thing is—” Sirius drawls, unfolding himself from the doorframe and stepping towards the table. “—is that you’re not your dad, are you? You’re not him.”
A faint crease of a frown flickers over Harry’s face as he watches the lupine approach, but he smoothes it over quickly. “No. I’m not.”
“I knew James very well.” Sirius stops at the chair housing Harry’s stretched out feet. He drags his gaze deliberately, obviously, over the entirety of Harry. “You are definitely not him.”
It’s instant, the flex of Harry’s jaw, the set of his teeth. The flash of envy in green, in eyes that are all Evans. He sits up out of his slouch, Seeker-quick, reeled in far too easily.
“I’m definitely not, because my dad never sucked you off, did he?”
Sirius holds back the bark of laughter, the thrill of the nettle. He rolls his shoulders casually instead, lowering his gaze. “And you know that for certain, do you?” He kicks at the chair, and Harry’s feet thump to solid ground. “You know that James never once crawled under my bed sheets at night, that he never put his mouth where you do so willingly, hm? That he never once dropped to his knees in the showers? You’re absolutely one hundred percent certain that that never happened.”
Harry stares at him, throat working. On the wall above the sink, the clock ticks loudly.
One more nudge, then. “Right, Harry?” He draws out the name slowly.
A stretched out heartbeat, a slow blink. Harry doesn’t break eye contact as he slides forward on to the edge of his chair and then down, dropping until his knees hit the floor. Green is vivid now, defiant.
“Like this?”
Sirius looks down at him, lifts a hand to Harry’s jaw to move his head side to side, a passive perusal. “Not quite.”
A wand is pulled, magic weaved, and the scar melts away, the eyes darkening into soft hazel. “Like this?”
Stilled by a simple glamour, Sirius isn’t sure he’s drawing breath. His thumb stutters over the now smooth forehead, over a face that is still somehow Harry but unbelievably different, one that’s so familiar that a wave of dizziness hits him. His heartbeat quickens, having pushed so far he’s somehow ended up dangling over the ledge himself. He drops his hands back to his sides.
Obviously sensing the impact, Harry carefully lifts his fingers to Sirius’ belt. He pauses, waiting for the go-ahead, and fucking hell— is Sirius really going to let this happen? Really going to let Harry do this wearing James’ face? He’s going straight to hell, or Remus is going to murder him, he’s unsure which is likely to happen first.
“Like this?” Harry repeats, fingertips tapping lightly at the buckle.
Sirius nods.
It’s all so slow, how Harry winds leather through metal, how he has him unfastened and bared in the watery kitchen light. He leans to lick lightly at the tip, drawing up the wetness that has already started to gather with the flat of his tongue.
It’s too much. Too soft, too careful. Too Harry.
“No.” Sirius splays a hand under Harry’s jaw again, digs in a little at the hinge. “It wouldn’t be like this.”
Tawny brown flashes up at him in affirmation, and then Harry’s opening his mouth wide, determined, and pushing down on the entire length.
A litany of curses tumble from Sirius’ mouth atop a breathy exhale. “Yeah,” he whispers. “He’d do it just like that.”
Harry’s lips kiss at the base and then he stills, waiting, water pooling in the corner of both eyes and mouth. His hands flex around the back of Sirius’ thighs, like he’s trying to pull him even closer.
Sirius hisses, fingers deep in dark hair, easing him back, and then forwards, slowly at first, and then Harry moans and flutters his eyes and Sirius just can’t help himself. Quicker, quicker, gasping down as Harry lets him fuck his mouth. The sticky-wet sounds fill the small space, the mixed garbled groans stuttering out of both of them. Sirius sucks in air like he’s drowning, his chest hurts, vision blurring, and all can think is James James James.
Harry pulls off with a glossy pop, fighting for breath, and Sirius isn’t sure if he spoke the name out loud, but he doesn’t stop to ask, just hauls Harry to his feet and yanks his jogging bottoms and boxers down. One hand swipes at Harry’s cock, the other at the crease of his arse, searching, pressing, and Harry takes the hint and magics him some more of that lube, and then everything’s gliding much smoother.
“Fuck me,” Harry says, arching up against him, and they stumble against the table, grinding it along the tiles with a screech.
He’s too far in, couldn’t turn back now. Doesn’t want to turn back now. Sirius pushes him back-flat on the table, steps between his legs and slicks him up, pressing fingers inside until Harry’s whining and begging. He gives himself a few strokes, adds more lubrication, and then Harry’s pulling him in with his legs around his waist. Sirius takes a thigh in hand, opens him up and wide, and pushes inside.
“Oh my god,” Harry moans, head thrown back on the table. “Sirius—fuck—”
Firm thrusts, rhythm building, Sirius pushes up Harry’s jumper so he can glide his palms over the lean shivering muscles spread out before him. It’s lewd and loud, the table squeaking on the tiles, their grunts of yes and don’t stop and like that.
Sirius may not have had a drop of alcohol in a few days but he feels like he’s necked an entire bottle, eyesight hazy, head cotton wool. He’s working his hips hard. Sweat wicks through his t-shirt, he’s a hundred degrees. He heaves in oxygen, that chant ribboning through his bloodstream with every breath. James.
It’s James writhing underneath him, James crying out his name, James spurting all over his belly with a wretched sob. It’s James that Sirius has gripped tightly at the hips, thrusting wildly into. Sirius is emptying deep inside him, and then it’s James who crunches up on the table, pulls Sirius down, searches out his mouth.
Fuck—He’s hit with a wave of lucidity. It’s Harry that is kissing him.
Sirius breaks away, closing his eyes, their foreheads touching. He needs to gain some control back, needs to stop this. But it’s so hard when Harry’s nuzzling hot against him, when he’s lightly nipping and sucking at Sirius’ bottom lip, drawing him back in, shifting his hips down where Sirius’ spent cock is slowly slipping out of him.
Sirius carefully opens his eyes. Green stares back, the scar scratched into skin once again.
“I’m not him.” Harry’s voice is ragged, and Sirius’ insides flip at the knowledge that he’s done that to him.
Sirius can only look at him, feeling like he’s in freefall.
Harry grips on to his shoulder, pinching painfully through the fabric of his t-shirt. The ache feels good, feels grounding. He wonders if they’ll have matching bruises. “You fucked me, Sirius. Not James.”
There’s a lump in Sirius’ throat, a pin-prick stinging behind his eyes. His breath is shallow and stuttered as Harry brushes their lips together again.
“It’s me,” Harry says. Another light kiss, a shoulder squeeze. “Me.”
Sirius swallows. His watery gaze flickers over every feature, every difference, every tell. “Harry,” he whispers.
Harry smiles softly against his jaw. “It’s me.”