Title: Bliss
Author: Andry
Rating:: Um...at most a T, for one swear word.
Warning(s): Mild swearing, a bit of angst, and slash, of course.
Notes/Disclaimer: Not mine; they're very much hers.
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Harry, Sirius; Sirry (Sirius/Harry)

Summary: Sirius and Harry share their first kiss, denying a future that could, quite possibly, happen.

x

The air around him was crisp, sharp with the promise of an icy night, and Harry shivered as he burrowed his hands deeper into his jeans pockets. He hadn't meant to stay out for so long, but the house was stifling and the noise was much too much; the Weasleys were rambunctious enough to be heard out on the porch. Harry didn't blame them, of course, they had a right to celebrate the passing of another holiday in each others' company, but he much preferred the quiet these past few weeks.

With the end of the war looming, he needed time to think, time to sort out where he was in his life and what would happen to his friends, his family, if something were to happen to him. Harry wanted to be sure that his friends understood that he'd do whatever damage he could if it came to taking both himself and Voldemort, or a bunch of Death Eaters, down. He wanted his friends to understand that he was okay with dying, if that's what it came to—he needed them to know that he loved them dearly, and was willing to do whatever it took to protect them, and their futures. Voldemort was lying low for now, but they knew it wouldn't last—mentally walking himself through everyday was the only defense Harry had to whatever was threatening to take over him, despite his calm assurances that he was prepared.

He'd snuck out of the Burrow's kitchen around an hour before, when dusk was just beginning to fall and the stars were just beginning to peek out from behind the few clouds strung across the sky; it had been beautiful, and the night that had fallen around him was even more so. Harry could see for miles out, past the trees and down the lane that connected the Weasleys to the outside world. It relaxed him, knowing that the world was still as beautiful as it was before, despite the ugly war they were in the middle of, despite the finality of what could come after that war was over.

Harry kept trying to think of how he was going to tell his friends that he was ready for anything, ready for all of it, but the longer he stayed out here, the less he had figured out. Ideas trickled to and from him through a small stream of thought, but no matter what he did, whatever entered his mind never seemed to fit. Sitting them all down and having a discussion about what could happen was something all of them were avoiding; writing them a letter seemed too final, even for him. He liked to think that there was something after death, something after that last breath, but Harry was never quite sure. His years growing up contradicted and grated against each other—he was never quite sure on a single topic, the more he looked at it.

His life was like that a lot, to be honest. Harry was sure that he was ready to die if it came to it, but a single part of him, deep inside, wanted to scream at the injustice of it all and hold on desperately. He was only eighteen, only recently graduated from school. There were so many possibilities before him, of what he could possibly be if he survived, if he lasted this war out until the end, and after; there were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to experience, and not enough time.

Not enough time at all. Time was running out, for all of them, but for him especially.

Sighing, Harry turned away from the porch railing, intending to head inside and warm himself by the fire in the living room. Instead of a clear passage, however, he found his way blocked by Sirius, who had a pensive look on his face; his normally bright eyes were dimmed in the shadow of the house, and there were lines lining his mouth that had no right to be there. Harry felt his heart skip, wanted to smooth those lines away with his fingertips, and barely kept himself from reaching out to do just that when Sirius stepped out of the house, hands buried deep in the pockets of his own dark jeans, his light sweater not enough to keep him very warm.

The older man was quiet, and Harry hated that; they were all quiet around him these days. He'd much prefer it if his friends went on with their lives as normal, kept their conversations light and silly in defense of the horrible reports that were made in the evening, when the Order gathered together to count their numbers and lick their wounds. Harry hated it especially when Sirius went quiet; he'd spent too much time being quiet in his life, and Sirius deserved the world to stop and listen to him completely when he spoke, when he laughed. Never quiet, not Sirius; it wasn't right.

"Hey," Harry said after a few long moments, during which Sirius settled himself against the porch railing. The line of Sirius' shoulders was tense, and Harry wanted to smooth that down, too; he wanted to touch and be touched, but now wasn't the time, and if he was unlucky, he'd never have the time.

Sirius didn't react to his greeting, and Harry frowned, his forehead pressing together in lines that were well worn, there long before they should be. Cautiously, afraid that Sirius was upset over something and not quite knowing what to do, Harry made his way back over to the porch railing, where he couldn't help but standing a bit too close to Sirius, stealing what little bit of heat the man had managed to bring with him outside. They stood in silence for a few moments, the wind creaking through the trees surrounding the Burrow and sounding almost as if they were ready to break, ready to bend to the wind's will and let things happen as they would.

"You've been out here a while," Sirius eventually said, and Harry felt warmth break over his skin and snake down his throat, strengthening him like chocolate after a Dementor attack, like a cup of tea after a battle with Death Eaters. He never knew why, but Sirius' voice was something that he could never let go of, in his waking hours and in his dreams.

"I know," Harry murmured, hearing the tension in Sirius' voice, moving closer in an attempt to share the warmth Sirius was radiating. "It was too loud," he explained after a moment, looking at Sirius' face, staring outright and not quite caring. He felt like he was running out of time, like they all were; Harry wanted to memorize Sirius' face all over again before he had to go and fight, before war could finish getting its claws into their lives.

"I figured that; you've been quiet the past few weeks." Sirius said it in a way that had Harry feeling guilty. It wasn't quite accusatory, but it was almost as if Sirius knew why he was quiet, knew what thoughts swirled in his head at all hours of the day, and was bothered that Harry hadn't come to him.

Harry hadn't come to him for several very obvious reasons, but didn't say a word, and let the silence continue until something inside of him said that now was the time to tell Sirius that he was ready, that he was prepared to go in a blaze of glory if that's what it took. He needed Sirius to know that he cared, that he loved the man, and even though he had knew he had no way of getting the enormity of that across, he was determined to try. His life began and ended with Sirius—and it always would, whether he was alive or not.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reached out and laid a hand on Sirius' forearm; the muscles were tense beneath his palm, and Harry knew, without even having to try, that Sirius was well aware of what was coming, of what he was going to say. They'd had moments like these before, where words weren't needed, and Harry had let them slide without voicing whatever had been bothering him. Because Sirius had known—but he doubted, very much, that Sirius knew exactly what he wanted to say this time, because Harry, himself, didn't even know.

"Sirius…I," he began softly, the words puffing out between them on gray motes of air.

Sirius turned to face him then, cutting off the rest of what Harry had started to say with a look that had Harry burning to the core; he reached out and grabbed Harry by the arm. "No," he whispered fiercely, "I'm not going to let you say goodbye."

Harry felt tears spring to his eyes at that statement, and he shook his head in tight movements, trying not to cry, attempting not to shiver as Sirius' grip became too hard, and not hard enough. "It's not goodbye, I promise. But…Sirius, god, you have to know. All of you have to know, what—"

"No," Sirius whispered again, bringing Harry close to him with a jerk of his arm and a twist of his wrist. Harry found himself with a mouthful of sweater, arms clutching him with bruising force. "I don't want to know, because I won't let it happen." Sirius sounded so sure of himself, so confident, that Harry would have believed the war was over, that everything was going to be okay if Sirius murmured it in that voice, told him in that particular tone. But he didn't, and Harry knew that Sirius was trying his hardest to keep the situation as distant as possible without abandoning it completely. Because that would be dangerous, convincing himself that it wasn't going to happen when it possibly could, that it was more than likely.

The tears in his eyes made their way to his throat with a choking sob, and Harry brought his fingers up to clutch at Sirius with equally bruising force. He forgot all about his flat decisions and life-changing choices in that moment, because in that moment, Harry realized that he very much wanted to live, if only to survive whatever it was between them, whatever had been growing without being checked.

"It might happen," Harry hedged after a moment, clutching Sirius closer and inhaling deeply. Smoke and whiskey and sandalwood and hope. Sirius. "It might, and you have to know. I have to tell you, I have to tell them—I won't be able to do what I need to if I can't say—"

"I know," Sirius breathed against his cheek, stubble grating and grounding Harry to the moment, telling him that this was real. "Fuck, Harry, we all know. That doesn't change how we feel about it—how I feel about it. I've known since the day your parents were killed that it was going to come to this, no matter how hard I tried to stop it. I thought I'd be able to stand to the side and let you do what needs to be done, but I can't. I'm not going to let you…" he trailed off, the word something he didn't want to say, much less contemplate.

Harry pulled away, gently putting a bit of space between them so he could look Sirius in the eyes and what he found there made him burn, hope, yearn for whatever it was that they hadn't shared yet and when he pressed forward again he did the only thing he knew he could: he kissed Sirius, hard and desperately, trying to feed what he wanted to say through feeling. He couldn't tell Sirius, but Sirius knew, and that wasn't enough, but it would have to do for now. It was a kiss of teeth and tongue and it hurt, and Harry had a brief moment to realize that there were hands in his hair and against his ears, calloused skin clutching at him gently and holding him with such a fierce tenderness that it should have been impossible before it was over and Sirius was pulling away and clutching him to his chest again.

Harry's ears were ringing as he listened to the rapid pound of Sirius' heart beneath his ear, and his mind was still reeling with the things that he had wanted to say, what he had to say, kiss or no. He knew then that every moment in their relationship had been leading up to that, that this was the starting point of something beautiful and real—and quite possibly brief. Aching just thinking about it, about how this was what he'd wanted all along without ever knowing and yet had always aware of, Harry mumbled against Sirius' chest, "I have to tell you."

Sirius' hand paused in its path through his already unruly hair and Harry felt the man shake his head, his grip on Harry tightening as he spoke. "Not now. I'll listen, but not now."

It wasn't quite enough, and it never would be, because Harry didn't know if he'd have the strength of mind to ever bring it up again—and maybe that was what Sirius was hoping for. That if Harry didn't convince himself that he was going to die, that he wouldn't; it was almost cruel, thinking about it like that, but Harry didn't give a damn. Sirius was murmuring things low in his throat, whispering promises and telling him things that he very much needed to hear at that very moment; Harry wanted to live, wanted to stay like this forever, but they both knew it wasn't possible.

That didn't change that Harry felt anything was possible in that moment, and as he reached up to press a gentler kiss to Sirius' mouth, to savor the last of the whiskey the man had consumed hours before, he wished that time would stop and that he wouldn't have to end, that this war would just let him be.

x

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