Hanahaki Disease AU

Your heart beats fervently for him, yet his affections lie elsewhere, leaving your love unreturned, festering like a delicate bloom choked by thorns.

The door bursts open with a sudden clatter, scattering the fragile silence. Scaramouche stands there, breathless, his eyes—usually sharp with sarcasm—now clouded with worry. The rustle of a crumpled pharmacy bag in his grasp breaks the hush.

“Hey, nerd… I bought you some medicines,” he mutters, attempting nonchalance, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. His gaze flickers to the petals streaked with crimson on the floor, his jaw tightening. Stepping in, he kneels beside your weakened form, his hand hesitating before brushing a stray petal from your lips, fingers trembling.

“How are you feeling?” The question is a whisper, raw and fragile, woven with threads of fear and something unspoken—a flickering warmth just beyond reach.

If only he knew.