Rodimus has been stricken with hanahaki disease! Vines and crystal flowers the colour of his beloved’s frame will grow in the spark chamber and vents until a confession of true love is given. Hasn’t admitted his affection yet? Better hurry, those flowers grow fast. Already confessed? Perhaps it must be done again, wholeheartedly and in full; or perhaps there is someone he hasn’t told yet. But do not despair; even if the affections are not returned, the flowers and vines will still fade, though far slower.
Be warned, however; if no admission of love is made, the growths will almost assuredly become fatal.
As reluctant as he is to leave Megatron in charge, Rodimus felt he had little choice - he could not command in this state he was in, frame wracking with every cough. He felt himself overheating, his intakes blocked by these flowers. It didn't seem to matter if he thought he'd coughed all of them up or not, there always seemed to be more. Using his flames to burn them out didn't help, either - even if they burned, they were replaced by more.
He couldn't make sense of them, where they'd come from, what they meant, why the colors seemed to shift between blue and red. Occasionally, small white blossoms accompanied the larger blooms, and he couldn't figure out what these flowers were trying to convey.
Locked up in his hab suite, Rodimus continued to spit out blossoms as he researched into the problem.
Hanahaki - he'd heard of it, but never thought it was a real thing, much less something that could affect Cybertronians like this. It was... frightening, to say the least. Rodimus glanced at the flowers that were scattered around his hab. The majority of them were red - ranging from vermilion to carmine - but there were a sizable number of blue.
He couldn't place anyone whose frame matched any of these shades. Not any one mech, at least. Rodimus reached for one of the blue flowers and studied it for a moment.
And a brief flash of a commanding mech ran through his mind, stern-faced and no-nonsense. Deep voiced, demanding better of him at every turn.
Rodimus threw the flower aside and curled up on himself as another cough ravaged his intakes. He struggled to clear the blossom caught in his throat, wheezing, hacking, squeezing his optics shut. When the flower finally passed, landing in his hands, Rodimus saw another crimson blossom, large and delicate all at once, with a green center that reminded him of optics that had always looked at him so gently, so adoringly.
More than one mech? How many confessions did Rodimus have to make?
