He was always reckless. Consequences and ramifications were merely a statistical possibility. Pranks had to be grand and complicated because those had the biggest reward. Decisions made considered the now instead of the future.
-.-
To be dreadfully honest, Sirius Black was now an apathetic soul. He cared very little for much. To him, life was unimportant which why he spent a good part of his inheritance on alcohol (cirrhosis juice) and cigarettes (cancer sticks). In the boardroom, he was commanding and reckless – this deal had the possibility to sink the company but the rewards could be amazing. It wasn't technically his company, he was just the majority shareholder, and the shares had been bequeathed to him by his uncle, so there wasn't much to lose – he had survived for 24 years without them and they meant little to him.
Gambling was not so fun when there was little to lose. And money meant nothing. He was a Black, there were just enough friends to prop him up if needed, just enough well-placed family to give him the push if he fell. Sirius meant scorching in Greek, but there wasn't enough in the world to make him feel alive.
Casinos made him feel dizzy with their low lights and cigar smoke spilling out from other tables. Cocaine made his eyes red and head spin. Whisky, sometimes, made his throat to dry. Sex wasn't fun when there was nothing to lose. But yet, he went through the notions because he was expected to – rich men had to have women wrapped around them, fill their blood with Glen Mhor, and wear expensive watches. He didn't like his watch – it was too heavy and cut into his skin.
So Sirius Black did the natural thing – he bought a motorcycle.
He bought a motorcycle which screamed death trap. Shining chrome wheels, an engine which shrieked with power, a sleek fast machine which he could race death on. On it, he was the fifth horseman, galloping towards certain doom.
His mother was appalled. His brother was disdainful. His father was dead and so said nothing. But they could do nothing, Sirius Black was the head of a fortune 500 company, he was 28 and he was young.
His girlfriend, naturally, could do nothing. She knew that their relationship was ticking to its end, just a couple more weeks till he got bored with her. She knew he was cheating on him anyway. She knew that he was with her because of that little red dress, she wore that night to the club. Still, she didn't like the motorcycle much – the engines roared a little too loud, she couldn't sit very comfortably on it and most importantly, it wasn't a Maserati.
-.-
Years ago, Sirius had friends. Not Mulciber or Avery or Flint, but true friends who laughed at his jokes because they were genuinely tickled. Friends who called him over for pizza instead of making him foot the bill. Friends who didn't require a drink to be called over.
James Potter, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. The four of them ran together as a pack. James was charismatic. He was reckless. Remus was thoughtful. Peter was prudent. They were a maniacal machine. He was there, making crude jokes in his best man's speech, when James was married to Lily. He was in the crowd clapping and hollering when Remus got his PHD in History. He was waiting outside the office building, when Peter got his first job at the BBC.
And then everything changed. James and Lily were hit by a car. Remus became an alcoholic and retreated into the world of academia. Peter watched the group fall apart, scurrying from Remus to Sirius begging them to speak to each other, and then gave up. Sirius could do nothing. He, stood like Nero watching Rome burn, numbly holding a glass of lukewarm whisky.
He stood at the back of the funeral parlour. Remus refused to come. It was his fault that James and Lily got into that crash, he had insisted that they take the taxi before him. It wasn't his fault because who could have known that this would have caused them to die. But Remus refused to come. Peter begged him to come. He spent two hours before the ceremony, in the garden, making unanswered calls to Remus' cell phone, leaving thousands of voice mails to a blank dial tone. On the other hand, Sirius stood at the back of the funeral parlour, wondering why they put Lilies in Lily's hand. She hated Lilies. He spent a good part of the funeral critiquing the décor of the parlour. They didn't give James his glasses. They put pink lipstick on Lily. They used a photograph of James with his hair gelled down. They didn't serve alcohol.
He spent the other smoking outside the parlour, blowing smoke rings to the daisies.
They had James and Lily's "friends" give speeches. Nelson Abbott, who had worked with James for two years, called James respectful. Dora Pucey, who was Lily's schoolmate, said she was an "inspiration". It was a load of shit. James was not respectful. Lily was not an inspiration. They were just two people who were alive.
He held Marlene Mckinnon as the coffins were closed and taken away. He patted Peter on the back when the service ended. He shook hands with Petunia Dursley, who was dry-eyed and tight lipped.
There were days he wondered about what he would have said if he gave their eulogy but it was difficult, near impossible even. It was hard to compress the lives of two people who were alive into a five minute speech. What moments would he have picked? What would be considered respectful enough? None of their interactions could be considered respectful – they were filled with swearing, pranks, teasing, crude jokes – completely incongruent with the façade of the funeral hall.
They were twenty-one. A whole new world lay spread like paradise on a butterknife in front of them. And yet, they were gone.
-.-
The first time he met Mulciber, he was offered cocaine. He tried it. Anything to feel a rush these days was good enough for him. He didn't like it, it made his heart race. His blood was pounding in his eardrums.
That night, he picked up the phone and called Remus. Remus picked up on the fourth ring.
"Sirius?"
"Hey Remus." He replied awkwardly. It had been months since the funeral. This was the longest time, he hadn't seen or spoken to Remus.
"What's up?" Remus' voice drained and flat like the moors he'd visited as a child.
"Haven't seen you in a while." Sirius swallowed nervously. "Wanted to talk."
There was a short breath over the phone and a long exhale.
"Right," came Remus' sardonic reply.
"Why didn't you come to the funeral?" Sirius felt the words unthinkingly leave him. He swallowed noisily. "We needed you there."
There was another long exhale. And then a click. Then came the bland jarring of the dial tone.
-.-
Nowadays, he didn't like looking into mirrors. The reflection staring back into him was blank and apathetic. When he moved his cheek muscles, the reflection smiled. When he twisted his mouth, his doppelganger smirked back at him. There was something childish and juvenile and young about his partner which he hated – like Dorian Grey staring into his portrait.
-.-
He met Peter for drinks a few times. They had burgers. There was nothing to say. He drove Peter home in silence.
"Good seeing you mate." Peter mumbled when they reached his flat. His voice, betraying the sentiment in the sentence. There was nothing left to say.
"Right. See you soon." Sirius replied. He watched Peter walk up the stairs to the entrance of his flat. There was no turn back cheery wave. There was nothing to be said.
"Goodbye." Sirius mumbled.
-.-
He liked riding his bike. The engine purred under him. Wind swept past his face, stinging his cheeks pink. There was an exhilaration to it all as he weaved in and out of traffic. He was fluid, he was lightning, death could not catch up with him.
-.-
That night, he received a call from an unknown number.
"Padfoot?" the voice slurred over the receiver. His eyes narrowed.
"Yes." He replied warily, rubbing his temples wearily. He could smell the whisky on Remus' breath, wafting through the receiver.
"I'm sorry." The voice cracked. "I couldn't see them. I couldn't…"
And over the phone there was sobbing, painful and wet. Sirius closed his eyes and listened.
-.-
He took his bike out for one midnight ride. He flew over the asphalt roads and tarmac, like death was on his heels. He rode faster and faster.
With one hand, he flung off his helmet and his engine purred in satisfaction. He closed his eyes and revved it.
Speed. Addictive grace. He pushed his steed under him faster, quicker.
The streetlights above were glowing gold, casting spotlights in the darkness. He cut through them and smiled.
-.-
Sirius Black was many things. Son, friend, debauchering hedonist. As they pulled his body from the twisted wreckage, bent, bleeding and broken, the EMT muttered the word which described him best.
Reckless.