They're fighting in the hallway; Sirius is drinking again and Harry is nursing the last of his wounds from the Final Battle, but sobriety is much too close for Sirius and Harry's pain is something he's gotten used to. Neither of them are holding back, and Harry can see the rage in Sirius' face but doesn't hesitate in calling the man on his continued drinking, on the guilty looks he throws Harry's way when he doesn't think the young man is looking, on the late night kisses that the man always, somehow, seems to sneak in.
Sirius is calling him out on anything he sets his mind on, whether it was Harry's fault or not, and the liquor bottle swaying in his hand at every gesture mesmerizes Harry in its power to take over a man of this caliber. He looks into Sirius' face and sees rage, pain, guilt, shame, and fear, and Harry wishes, not for the first time, that he could change that. He has tried, so very desperately, but he's tired now; the war is over and all he wants to do is rest. He can't do this for much longer; Remus tells him that it's time to quit, but Harry can't accept that, not when the Sirius he loves is so close to the surface of this doppelganger.
Harry says something he regrets seconds later; he can't remember what it was, though, and for the life of him, he's not even sure he wants to try. He sees hurt flash across Sirius' face before the man is dropping the Firewhisky bottle, seizing Harry by his good arm and pushing him into the wall, where he covers the teen's body with his own and whispers, "Do you really want that?" in a voice that is rough from drinking and anger. Hot breath fans across Harry's neck, and he's nearly overwhelmed by the sharp scent of the alcohol that is spilling out in small rivers on the floor between them.
Sirius is holding his arm hard enough to bruise, and the sickly sweet breath on his neck is doing nothing to stop him from groaning with the want that has been tearing through his system for weeks now; the absolute desire to possess, be possessed by, Sirius, to take and give and just…Harry shakes his head, replying in a voice thick with want and pain and need, "No," and he adds, not knowing what he's asking for as he does so, "Please."
There are teeth and lips and words on his neck, and Harry can't catch what Sirius is murmuring against him, but shifts in the man's grip and presses against him, hoping to deliver the message he's been trying to give Sirius all along: I need you.
In a fit of motion, Harry finds himself being tugged down the hall, into Sirius' bedroom, where Harry hasn't been in weeks; he hasn't been able to carry the man into bed, as he used to do, and hasn't been able to climb the stairs for at least a month. He's taken to sleeping on the couch in the study whenever Sirius is drunk, avoiding the man as much as he possibly can, despite how much it hurt, but tonight had been different. Sirius had sought him out and Harry had braved the stairs, and as they tumble into the messy bedroom, Harry nearly trips over a stray piece of laundry. Sirius is moving over to the bedside table where he tosses back a shot, offers Harry one, and the tiny glass shatters on the floor as Sirius pulls Harry close and kisses him, biting, licking, talking against Harry's mouth with a fervor that leaves Harry dizzy.
They fall back against the bed and Harry knocks his still damaged leg against the bed frame, but he hisses in both pain and pleasure as Sirius soothes it with touch and kisses Harry gently on the mouth. He tastes of Firewhiskey and it almost turns Harry's stomach, but under the tang of the liquor, he can taste Sirius; smoky, and faint, but it's there.
Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat as Sirius kisses him again, and the older man pulls away, eyes bright and he's panting as he asks, "Do you want this?" in a voice that is bordering on being sober.
Harry can't speak, and nods, threading his fingers through tangled hair and moaning softly as they kiss again.