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Venti's existence and ways of living are, in itself, a whole oxymoron.
He is the God of Freedom, yet pins, and even tightens, his chains that hold him far, far away from the bright blue sky, where he truly belongs. He and his people freely sing of love and of companionship and of journeying into the unknown like the youthful adventurers they all are, yet the Windborne Bard feels an unparalleled amount of hatred for no one but himself; the nameless bard of Mondstadt's Best Bard suffocates in the thick roots of loneliness, and most of all, he's so afraid. Despite singing about the ever-heroic tales of Venessa the Dandelion Knight and of the otherworldly traveler, his little game of masquerade has gone on for quite too long, the line between feelings and actions often become intermingled with one another. For an average human being, it wouldn't be hard to separate the two sides, considering that mortals are very attuned to their inner feelings, but Venti has seen what this generation has not.
He was a spectator of gods crumbling to nothing but dark souls, to nothing but dust; he watched his allies fall to fight for what they believed in, yet he himself was reborn, from a tiny, fleeting wind spirit to the Lord of the Wind.
It's silly, really. All he did was listen to a bunch of rebels (but bless them, nonetheless. Bless Jean).
And he hates, oh dear Archons he hates the ever-growing abyss culminating itself within the deepest recesses of his soul. He tries so hard, everyday, to forget, especially when there's so many things to look forward in life and he knows that! The sun is always bright in Mondstadt no matter the season, the apples he receives from the kind-hearted Quinn are always fresh, and everyone, both young and old, are always willing to listen to his easily woven tales of song. Not to mention, he doesn't hate everything he's been through and the people he had surrounded himself with, both then and now.
But if anything, he hates himself for allowing himself to even reach out and grasp the threads of friendship with these people. These people, who gave him a home when he did not have one, these people, who called him a friend despite never knowing from whence he came or how old the lad may be, because everyone is so fucking assuming how he lives or where he lives or why he's like this, because Mondstadt, with all its heroic and admirable freedom, has so much freedom on its hands it lets its people gossip in the ungodliest hours of dawn.
And what's even worse is that Venti can barely, if ever, bring himself to care. He knows who whispers what in the wind, he knows every little detail, but what good is any of the knowledge he has of his children when he can barely keep himself upright? And he certainly knows what the folks say of him, but it stopped striking chords in his heard a long, long time ago.
He's used to it; he's used to the slander he has to face, even if indirectly; he's used to the slurs he is called, he's used to the distrust that surrounds him, despite his best efforts to appear the most innocent traveling bard. And perhaps, at this point, a part of him―the raw, emotional, vulnerable part of him that he has stowed away for decades, maybe even centuries now, time is but a fickle concept to an Archon like him―agrees with whatever whispers are carried in the wind. He simply believes they're right without a second thought, without a moment's hesitation, because what use was it pondering over? It's not like they were ever going to admit their sins, and it's not like they meant any harm, right? They were just mad and annoyed, frustrated and exasperated, and wanted to take it out on someone. Besides, at the end of the day, they were all nice people―just a bit temperamental, is all.
Also, thinking made him sad. Really, really down, which is why he stopped thinking a long time ago. Not in the sense that he gave up being rational completely, for the Anemo Archon Barbatos still lived within him, albeit ever so dimly; instead, Venti the Windborne Bard was known to be an impulsive, mischievous, sneaky little brat, particularly by the winery tycoon owner Diluc Ragvindr (whom Venti was sure always meant well, but the words still stung on particularly lonely nights, still).
And so, we have Venti, the Windborne Bard, one who often played with the wind as if it were his domain. The short bard who couldn't stand cats, the lively bard who could easily win everyone's heart with a simple three-chord tune. Venti, the nameless bard who's been a three-time champion in Mondstadt's annual "Best Bard" competition, because everyone who met him would never depart from him sad or lonely or afraid or angered.
But who was he to turn to when he himself felt sad, lonely, afraid and angered? He is loved, yet he cannot bring himself to love, both platonically or otherwise. Because every time someone comes up to him and reminds him of all the good things he is, he can silently come up with twice, even thrice as much reasons as counterarguments.
And that's why he's so afraid. He's afraid of the disappointment, he's afraid of not being good enough, of not being lovable enough, of not being powerful enough, of not being able to protect those he loves because he's so fucking weak beyond comparison. Hell, even Morax, now posing as a mortal named Zhongli amidst his own people, seems to be better off than him, even if he himself remembers to bring Mora wherever he can! He's not afraid of being disappointed, because he knows nothing his lover would do could ever actually anger him because he has acknowledged long ago that people make mistakes, even divine beings. He is afraid of being the disappointment, he's afraid of getting blood on his hands and only because he'd be cradling his lover in his arms, wailing at how he couldn't even hold off their pain. Because he's seen so much blood, so much war, so much chaos, and the cacophony of war still rings in his heads in dark, silent nights atop the divine statue in front of the church when he's seated and lonelier than words will ever be able to describe.
And that's why, even if the raw, vulnerable, emotional, frail side of him yearned for Xiao, the Guardian Yaksha of Liyue, the one adeptus whom he himself bestowed his divine blessings and power upon, so, so much, he cannot ever bring himself to even think about a future with im because he's so scared he'll fall deeper than he already is, so deep he'll never be able to climb out of this godforsaken grave he's dug for himself.