Unrequited Love... (Hanahaki)
About: Hanahaki disease but it's less painful and more just… inconvenient. The flowers instead bloom on one's body and falls off, especially at times when their resolve is tested.
Disclaimer that this isn't my original idea! It's inspired by other media I've seen.
Characters: Venti, Kaeya, Diluc, Albedo
CW: Some angst
Whenever you speak to Venti, he has to laugh off the way cecilias and wildflowers are tumbling out of his arms, a pile that keeps on growing and scatters onto the ground. When you ask if everything's alright, he just says that maybe it's because someone was on his mind.
Venti changes the topic and talks to you until he can't bear it any longer, making a quick excuse to leave before you noticed how the color of the flowers were starting to ink with hues of blue. (--Impossibility.)
Of course, he wouldn't let you know that it was you; not many of them would. Call it a shared stubbornness the Mondstadtians had, but it's really quite unromantic to let your crush know they were the cause of your disease.
Kaeya's another attestment to that, a man that keeps his emotions under check so that the flowers may not expose his longing. Moonflowers are quite beautiful, but the pure, adamant way they call for your affections makes him feel more disarmoured than he'd like.
Kaeya spins it into a tale of graceful, mysterious romance. He was waiting for his love to return, or when he could properly confess as to them as someone they couldn't ignore.
At the end of long days, Kaeya finally shuts the door to his private quarters, and the petals pool to the ground, tracing his steps like snowfall.
Diluc's mood becomes more severe when his condition is worse than usual. The inconvenience is in how responsive they are to his emotions. A shred of doubt or twinge of wonder, and bluebells, asters and roses would decorate his skin; braver than he in expressing his feelings for you.
"Whoever you like must be lucky to have you thinking about them."
Everything was bitterly ironic, wasn't it? After Diluc braves the rest of your visit and bids you goodbye, he holds his head with a gloved hand, tiredly watching a rose that laid on the bar.
He wonders how much longer this conflicting churn would continue. Diluc smiles bitterly; if nothing else, he was always great at antagonising himself.
Albedo wishes he could at least manage some aspect of his disease, but like a medium with a mind of its own the flowers painted streaks across his skin, the handles of its brushes held by a child. Jarring, voluminous blooms sought to draw your attention with any means necessary.
On certain nights, Albedo walks to the edge of the city and stands by the shore, letting the flowers rain onto the surface of the water and carry away on a current also out of his control.
By morning, they disassemble into stray petals, or perhaps dissolve as chalk. Albedo never checks, never visits the morning after to see what became of the desires within him.