the past always comes back to haunt you, he must have read or heard that somewhere and he can’t help but agree. mistakes have been made, lot of them if he’s being honest, && he did not learn from them, not for a long, long time. when his friends learned, when his friends grew up, sirius stayed relatively unchanged, unable to see his faults, unable to see a reason to change. he was who he was, hardships, violence, it made him who he was, it allowed him to survive && find freedom with most of his sanity left -- no one could ever know what that life was like, they had no right to judge who he had to become so as to get out.
but he has learned, the hard way of course for it seems the only way it would ever get into his thick skull ;; && how please would mother be to know she was right about that. his flesh is littered with reminders of everything he had to go through, every mistake he made reprimanded, every year survived in azkaban. but his mind is the scarred one, hurting, scared, an open wound he tries to hide from the world. but the night is relentless, unforgiving, his mind out to remind him of the pain. that’s how he finds himself in the kitchen, pouring alcohol into a tumbler, grey hues lost in the distance as only the thought of dulling every nerve he possesses occupies his mind.
there are familiar footsteps though, he knows who is going to appear, ginger hair, big blue hues with monsters lingering ; the weasley girl, the one && only. glass in hand, he turns and rests against the countertop, waiting for her appearance. there is no question upon his tongue, maybe curiosity that can be found in the depth of his gaze. cigarette is placed between his lips, flame a second away from lighting it, ❝ fancy seeing you here, kid, ❞ and smoke escapes his nose.
@waspossessed / for that think we spoke of.
