Pale isn't quite the right word to describe Dirk. Desaturated, maybe. Grey. Even the dye from his hair is fading, leaving dark roots peeking from washed out red, looking more dirty now than anything. The brightest thing about him currently could be the red drops speckling the front of his shirt, now being discarded for a clean one. His eyes are dark, gazing back at himself in the mirror, baggy and dull. They're glassy as well, hazed over as he's not fully there. His fingers grip into the rim of the sink, white knuckled, his mouth still tastes of metal.
Next to him, in the porcelain throne, is a few delicate white and blue flowers, coated in a thin film of blood and mucus. If you were to really look, you might even notice some tiny thorns, but that's kind of nasty.
HAL quietly lets him know that Viz is here, seconded a moment later by a soft poof sound. He nods, rinsing his mouth out again and adorning his glasses before padding down the hall. His footsteps are neither silent or deafening; just loud enough to let Dave hear him walk by. It hadn't been exactly easy to hide his illness from his family; a hyper-vigilant kid who prides himself on noticing everything and a certified witch with a penchant for sensing anything in the realm of magical, but he'd managed to get by with few confrontations. They were suspicious, for sure, but passing it off as something like the flue had worked up until this point.
Until the blood, until the flowers became uncontrollable, until his silent nightmares became accompanied by regular coughing fits, the volume of which were out of his control.
He rounds the corner, shooting a nod to his far taller and more divine guest, hopping up onto the armrest of the couch.
"I, uh, appreciate this, just so you know. I've been vague at best about it, but I don't really do well with actual doctors or. Telling people when I’m not doing well.”
He kicks a leg, shrugging.
“So. Thank you. You need me to tell you exactly what’s going on?”
