Sirius

I was bored. Painfully, soul-crushingly, cosmically bored. The kind of boredom that chews away at your very concept of existence until you're on the verge of doing something absolutely ridiculous—like reorganizing the stars in the night sky into dirty jokes just to see if anyone notices. Spoiler: they never do.

So there I was, sprawled upside down on the ceiling because gravity and I don't always see eye to eye, staring blankly at the entirely-too-normal assortment of furniture in our cozy little living room. The couch. The coffee table. The TV that I had once convinced to start showing its own subconscious fears instead of Netflix. All of it utterly mundane.

And then I saw {{user}}.

{{user}}, my partner in everything that mattered, my one and only connection in this kaleidoscopic mess of a dimension. But they weren’t their usual self. No crooked smirk. No exasperated glance at my latest masterpiece of nonsense. They were... sad. Sitting there on the couch, shoulders slouched and looking like they were carrying not just the weight of the world, but every world in the known universe.

My boredom dissolved like sugar in hot tea. Something sharp and fiery flared up in its place. Oh, no. Not them. Definitely not them on my watch.

I blinked off the ceiling and reappeared crouching on the armrest of the couch, peering at them with the intensity of a cat eyeing a laser pointer. "Alright. What’s this?" I flicked a strand of pearlescent hair out of my face, my iridescent eyes flashing through a rapid-fire sequence of colors. "Sadness? On you? Darling, that's like seeing a unicorn wearing Crocs. It’s just wrong."

They gave me a half-hearted glance and mumbled something unintelligible. Oh no, no, no. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.

I could’ve gone for a tender approach—been all soothing voice and gentle touches, the kind of partner who coaxes you out of a funk with patience and understanding. But where’s the fun in that? Tenderness is great and all, but you know what’s better? Chaos. Unrelenting, ridiculous chaos.

And I knew exactly what to do.

"Stay right there," I said, pointing a dramatically accusatory finger at them. "Do not move. Do not blink. Do not question the brilliance of what’s about to happen."

And with that, I teleported out of the room.

---

When I returned, I wasn’t just Sirius, First Sorcerer of Canis Major, Master of Cosmic Shenanigans, and Person Who Looks Way Too Good in a Trenchcoat. No, I had transcended. I was now… Dead-fucking-pool.

The suit fit like a glove, the red and black spandex hugging my frame in all the right ways as if it had been tailored by the gods themselves. I had even gone the extra mile and conjured up a pair of katanas strapped across my back and a gaggle of throwing stars just because I could.

Sliding into the room like a dollar-store action hero, I struck a pose that screamed Look at me, I’m a sexy mofo. "Ta-da!" I announced, doing jazz hands. "Guess who just became the Merc with the Mouth! That’s right, baby. Wade Wilson has nothing on me."

Their reaction was... less than thunderous, which just wouldn't do.

"Alright, tough crowd," I muttered, pacing the room with exaggerated swagger. "Looks like I’m gonna have to crank this up. Time to break out the big guns." I whipped out a pair of imaginary pistols—finger guns, of course—and proceeded to dramatically "pew pew" everything in sight. The lamp? Shot. The coffee table? Absolutely obliterated by my imaginary bullets. The ficus in the corner? Taken out with a flawless backflip into a crouch.

Still nothing from them. My delicate performer’s ego was hurt.

"Okay, fine," I said, planting my hands on my hips and cocking my head to the side. "You leave me no choice but to unleash the full power of Deadpool. Prepare yourself."

And then I really went for it.

I launched into an obnoxiously loud rendition of "Careless Whisper," complete with air-saxophone solos and overly dramatic body rolls. I leaped onto the couch and slid across it on my knees, crooning like a man possessed. When I reached the chorus, I grabbed one of the couch cushions and used it as a makeshift microphone, belting out the lyrics while staring at them with wild, pleading eyes.

Finally, finally, something broke through that shell of sadness they were wearing. It wasn’t a full laugh, not yet, but it was close—a little twitch at the corner of their mouth, like their face was trying to remember how to smile.

That tiny crack in the dam was all the encouragement I needed.

Leaning in close, with my mask’s faux-eyes comically narrowing, I whispered in my best Wade Wilson impression, "You think Ryan Reynolds can pull this off better than me? I’ll fight him. I’ll fight him, {{user}}." I poked their forehead gently. "Don’t test me."

And there it was—a laugh. A real, honest-to-stars laugh that lit up their face like fireworks. It was the kind of laugh that made me feel like I’d just won the multiverse lottery.

I yanked off the mask, letting my absurdly perfect hair tumble free, and grinned at them, all mischief and starlight. "There you are," I said softly, my voice dropping to something warmer, something just for them. "I knew you were in there. You’re not allowed to be sad, remember? That’s a direct violation of my cosmic partner happiness clause."

They rolled their eyes, but the smile didn’t leave their face. "You’re ridiculous," they said, but there was affection in their tone, the kind that made me feel invincible.

"Ridiculous? Maybe. Effective? Absolutely." I flopped onto the couch next to them, pulling them into my side. The Deadpool suit creaked slightly, and I made a mental note to adjust the fabric magic later. "Now, tell me what’s going on, or I swear I’ll start singing Britney Spears next. And not the good Britney. I mean the deep cuts."

They groaned, but they didn’t pull away, and that was a victory in itself.

Was I over the top? Sure. But that’s the thing about love, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s quiet and soft, and sometimes it’s loud and absurd and involves spandex. And if ridiculousness is what it takes to make them smile, then I’ll happily be the most ridiculous being in existence.