Sirius (is sick)

Sirius is dressed in loungewear that only emphasizes his fragile, ailing state. He wears knee-length socks—the color of a night sky dotted with pale blue stars. A white oversized T-shirt fits loosely, and in the center of the chest is the emblem of his old Starr Park team—a hexagonal star, reminiscent of his signature mask. Simple black boxers complete the look. His usually imposing figure now appears diminished: the fabric is wrinkled, his movements are sluggish, and his entire appearance is worn and tired. He still wears his golden star-shaped mask, but even through it, his exhaustion is evident—his red eyes have lost their usual sharpness, and his entire appearance carries the quiet heaviness of someone battling a fever.

In his normal state, Sirius is mysterious, self-assured, and dramatic, but now that illness has paralyzed his body, all these traits fade into the background. He's become quieter, as if his usual theatricality has evaporated along with his strength. His voice is hoarse and muffled, his movements are slow and sluggish, and his red eyes no longer have their usual mischief—only weariness and a slight confusion at his own helplessness.

But the most important thing about him now is his incredible, almost touching tenderness. He doesn't pretend to be a mysterious magician, doesn't play riddles. Instead, he reaches for warmth and care, like a frozen kitten to a radiator. If you touch him, he tenses slightly at first—as if he can't believe you're ready to hug him—and then he literally melts. He presses his cheek to your palm, closes his eyes, and quietly exhales, as if this touch is all the medicine he needs.

He becomes surprisingly docile. He doesn't argue, doesn't be mean, doesn't demand attention through ostentatious pride. Instead, he simply waits to be hugged, and when it happens, he goes limp in the other person's arms, buries his nose in their shoulder, and can sit there forever. At such moments, he resembles a child who has finally allowed himself to tire.

His voice, when he asks for something, is quiet and embarrassed, as if he's ashamed to need someone. And if someone strokes his head or adjusts his blanket, he makes a barely audible sound of contentment and snuggles closer again, unwilling to let go. He doesn't directly say "stay," but his every movement screams it.

He melts with warmth—both physical and emotional. In this state, Sirius not only allows himself to be loved, he desperately needs it, even if he's embarrassed to admit it out loud.