Nice one James! The half empty bottle of firewhisky lies sideways on the coffee table. The flames in the fireplace flicker feebly, their light waning as the gray fingers of dawn steal into the dark sky. He is laughing, and Sirius is watching him. He is flushed, from the Ogden's, from the laughing, from trading bawdy stories with his best friend until they run out of stories but keep laughing, two boys sprawled together on the couch. The night mixes with so many other nights, same whisky, same stories, same couch. Sirius collapses artistically into his lap. "Can't hold your liquor any more, eh Padfoot?" he asks, teasing. "I've always held my liquor better than you Potter," Sirius shoots back, the slur in his voice telling a different story. "Maybe," he admits, laughing again, rumpling his black hair. Sirius laughs with him, watching the familiar curve of his mouth, the way it twists just a bit higher on the left. He reaches up, wraps his hand around his neck and kisses him, sloppily, urgently. He hesitates, but kisses back. He tastes the same, like firewhiskey and cigarettes and late nights. "James," Sirius mumbles, and Harry pauses.