He was a man of stolen moments. He needed the escape that they offered, and he would do anything to get them. That had earned him quite a reputation. Firewhiskey was a favourite method of his, one that he had, for the most part, kept a secret from his friends. The other way he got away was, of course, women. The girls of Hogwarts threw themselves at him, and he, like any good playboy, was happy to oblige. He didn't discriminate either, he was, to put it bluntly, looking to get laid, nothing more nothing less. He had no desire for a relationship. Not with them; not like that.
Some girls said he was broken, that he was a freak, that he needed help, but of course they only ever said that once he was finished with them; before that he was boyish, fragile, and, for those with a mind to the physical, beautiful.
Not that he cared what they thought.
Superficially, it hurt when they hated him; he wasn't fond of being an asshole. But it wasn't enough to change him; the pain of being a good man was far, far worse, in his opinion, than the pain of being hated by some Ravenclaw slut. It wasn't as if they wouldn't hate him anyways, for opposing reasons. If he turned them down he was a prick, and if he left them he was a bastard.
That was the way of the world; they'd hate you no matter what you do.
So he used them. He'd never lied about it; he needed the sex to escape, they wanted to be with him. It was a win-win situation right up until it wasn't. Ending it was the worst; it left him feeling even more hollow, more empty. Not because he'd really felt anything for them, but because of the way that everyone, including his friends, including James, would look at him for days afterwards.
He didn't mean it like that, but life otherwise was just too much to bear; he'd tried it for while, back in sixth year. He'd dropped all of his girls and tried to be normal, like any other Hogwarts boy, but it had failed miserably, everyone had admitted that after. Girls had still thrown themselves at him, still been offended when he refused them; they'd practically ripped his clothed off in the bathroom between classes.
And he'd been miserable.
That was really what it was about; he needed the escape of those stolen moments in the bathrooms, moments of naked, hurried frenzy, in order to feel sane. Otherwise he just felt dirty, soiled, and lost. It wasn't just his family, he was well rid of them now, blasted off the tapestry and everything, it was his whole life. It was watching his friends being picked up from King's Cross, smiling at their parents; it was watching siblings joke with each other at meals; it was watching James and Lily fall into the familiar rhythm of couplehood.
That was it. James was no longer his. Not that he'd ever really been, not in the way that he'd like. He'd always be his best friend, and that was enough.
Sirius was a man of stolen moments, stolen moments from a life of loving his best friend.
A/N: What do you think? This idea has been floating around in my head for a while now, I'm not sure that I fully got it to sound how I wanted, but I think it's decent. Please let me know if you have any criticisms, I love those :). Anyways I hope that you liked this.
I may rework this in the future.
Disclaimer: I obviously own nothing except my own thoughts. Or, if you are of an Orwellian turn of mind, not even that.