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He had seen the world differently.
He had been told that all his life. Whether in Munich ‘28 as a younger child, Berlin as a teenager, or in the United States as an elder: it had always been undoubtedly true.
He had learned from a young age that the mind was more interesting than the heart. Munich had taught him, Berlin had confirmed it, and America had given him the tools to show it.
The word that came to mind first was clinical. And, yes, that is what one would logically conclude regarding his position.
Yet, it never did only pertain to his career.
There was something almost exhilarating from disconnecting his consciousness from his actions. They existed on arguably two separate planes of being. He had made peace—no, he had thrived with that discovery. The ability to feign empathy while evaluating the subconscious had been admittedly his favorite pastime.
And do not get him wrong, he did not exclude himself from this treatment.
Yellow had never been his color. In fact, if you asked him, he would tell you it was his least favorite. It was either murky or too bright, there was not a singular shade that he found particularly enthralling.
That he just so happened to be throwing up yellow flowers, well. That was almost certainly a coincidence.
He was not stupid, no. Hanahaki was a rather disputed disease within the medical field—one that he had always believed in, sure—but not one he had ever intended on catching.
It felt like he should be more upset about the fact that he is rapidly dying than the fact that the flowers are yellow.
But when did he ever do what he should do?
He was a little like an outlier in the data set, just a little, really. Most subjects had not known what this is, thus, ceased to exist due to it.
He knew exactly what it was.
The object of his attraction was no other than his teammate, Heavy—or preferably—Misha. The reason this happened is because it had gone too long, presumably unrequited.
Yet, his clinical curiosity frequently overpowers his will to live.
Like he said—actions, emotions—two different planes of existence.
Within a week, he had grown to something akin to the Sniper. Physically, no, two very different men. Mentally, a little. That was what he was talking about. Which was to say: they had both been filling jars with something yellow that was a product of the body.
That Mundy's was something unsanitary and gross, well, that was different. Still, the similarity was notable.
It was a curious thing, those flowers. There were a lot of things you could do with them. Pointedly, he considered the possibility of a medigun.
He grit his teeth a little at the possibility of a yellow Medigun. That still bothered him. The taint, stain of yellow that looked like a blemish on his neat, clinical room.
There were work arounds though. Ones that hadn't dawned on him yet, but will, because he was a smart man, which was important, which somehow made things a lot harder.
Anyway, his point still stood. A medigun fueled by feelings of love, which yeah, sounded a little corny, he would admit to that. But the disease, the flowers, those were powerful entities. Powerful entities that could, very possibly, be exploited.
By week two, someone had finally knocked at his door.
His skin crawled—just a little.
Considering his job—and responsibilities regarding that job—he begrudgingly opened the door to be met with the familiar Texan: the Engineer.
"Ah! Engineer. Come," he said with a smile—a confessedly semi-fake one.
"...Hey, Doc," Engineer mumbled, tense. He stepped further into the room.
Medic tilted his head. "You look stressed? Did you come for medication? I have—"
"No—no, none a'that, Doc. I ain't worried." A pause. "Well, kinda."
"Elaborate?"
"I'm worried about you."
"Me?" Medic quirked a brow. "Vhy?"
"I notice things, Medic. An' I've been noticin that you been takin' 5 more minutes than usual for you to respawn. So I sniffed around. Yellow flowers, all over respawn. And your censor damn clogged with them."
Medic blinked.
"...Vell, yes. I've been experimenting."
"Experimenting?" Engineer echoed, low and mocking. "I went to college for damn well over twenty years for science. I know...I know some basics of medical shit, y'know? Ya think through my years I haven't picked up sum'n about Hanahaki?"
"...Yes. You are very intelligent. I suppose I should have cleaned up better." Medic sighed, pushing his glasses forward. "Very vell, zhen. You know. You should be on your vay, ja?"
Engineer did not leave, in fact, quite the opposite. He stepped forward, kicking a stray petal across the floor with his boot. He looked Medic right in the eye.
“I ain’t goin anywhere, Doc. This ain’t about your heart, I ain’t touchy feely like that. You know that quite well. If you choke on a sunflower in the middle of battle—everyone might die, and we might get fired. It’s about logistics. Don’t get what you're scared of.”
Medic swallowed, his forehead scrunched in deep thought. Aggravating—he catalogued. This was an aggravating situation he was in and he needed to handle it like a professional because he was a professional and he did not get angry nor did he show rage because he was a professional and this was his field.
“I can tell Misha vhenever I vant to,” Medic decided. “But, I believe experimenting is much more useful.”
“So, you’re not scared. Alright. You told me who, scared people don’t usually do that. So, I’ll give you that,” he conceded. “Still. This…whole. Thing. This experiment. You’re not going to live to tell the results.”
“I’d find a way.”
"But what if you don’t?” Engineer stepped forward and jabbed a finger—too close.
A beat of silence.
“Look, Ludwig,” Engineer sighed. “You’re a smart man, alright? I trust you. But science don’t mean a lick if you’re not there to operate the experiment. Fix it, or I’ll tell the big guy the real reason your respawn tubes are filled with flowers. An’ I don’t reckon he’ll like it very much—”
Another.
“—cause he was the one who pointed it out to me,” Engineer confessed. “Color yourself lucky that he wasn’t born in the states. Maybe he’d know, otherwise.”
Medic did not say anything. He stared, frozen in place. Surprised, no, stunned, a little. The word was not diagnosable.
“Please leave my office.”
The mess hall at lunch was always loud and booming. Medic had never commented on this, nor did he think about it that much—until now.
It felt like ambience most of the time, something he was accustomed to and rather enjoyed.
Now, the routine was off.
The coffee was floral. A disgusting, bitter taste in his mouth—a rather dangerous one too. He spit in his hand, crushing the yellow (ew) in his calluses. There were stains of light blood, vascular spasm, specifically. Which was good—he could probably find the source of the injury.
That was hoping it was a coincidence of a mouth injury and coughing flowers at the same time.
He slipped the flower into his pocket.
And—rather unexpectedly—he started to cough. And cough. And cough. And cough.
It was embarrassing—more than embarrassing, humiliating. He found consolation in the fact maybe three petals came out from the coughing fit—so it wasn’t as dramatic as it could've been.
“Are you sick?” Spy asked from across the table, hand curled on his chin. “A doctor such as yourself should know when to stay home. I do not want to catch what you caught.”
“So presumptuous," Medic barked back with admittedly too much bite. “I am not sick. It is not contagious. It is a punishment, for, ugh—”
Another cough. And another. The room was silent now.
“I am fine,” Medic reiterated, his muscles going tense.
Spy tilted his head and said nothing else.
Heavy looked at him with a tilt of the head. “Doktor. Go home.”
“...Please—” Medic snapped his head away “Do not look at me. I am fine.”
He left.
He had left with three yellow flowers still stuck to his lapel.
…It was clinical, he was being clinical about this.
He had an experiment to run, after all, one he didn't intend on failing. He was thinking about research. He was thinking about the loose, medigun prototype just sitting on his desk right now waiting for him like a neglected baby bird—ugh, no, that's terrible. Who would neglect a baby bird?
He was not thinking about the way Heavy tilted his head and looked at him with a degree of concern that—
The point was he had a plan. He always had a plan.
Engineer had called it not going to live to see the results.
Engineer was occasionally right about things, and Medic found that deeply irritating on a level that wasn't quite dignified or articulable.
This, though—this wouldn't be something he was right about.
He rounded the corner to med bay and stopped immediately—
Heavy was sitting right outside his door.
…Perfect.
The man was enormous, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall like a very big child. He had something in his hands—he was looking at it. He looked up at Medic as soon as he processed the footsteps.
"…You followed me," Medic said.
"Da," Heavy confirmed.
"You are slower than me. How did zat happen?"
"Shortcut."
"Ah."
Heavy stood—slowly, cautiously, the way large things moved when they're trying not to wake up something smaller. He held out what was in his hands: a bouquet of red flowers. Poppies. Aggressively red.
"Sat outside and waited."
"I can see zat," Medic noted. "Misha—the Engineer told me—" he stopped. "You vere the one vho noticed. The respawn tubes, ja?"
"Da."
"…And you said nothing?"
"You are smart man, Doktor. Did not think you needed telling." A beat. "Was wrong, maybe."
Medic exhaled through his nose.
"You went and got those," Medic said.
"Da."
"And that—" he started, "—required leaving the base."
"Short trip."
"You are not a man vho leaves ze base often. And not for short trips either."
"No," Heavy confirmed. "I am not."
Medic stood in the hallway for another moment—considering. He was a man of data—and this, well, this was data. He was processing it clinically. He swallowed nervously.
He stepped forward.
"Zhose are..." Medic murmured, vaguely gesturing to the red flowers. "Zhose are for me?"
"I...ah. The word.” A pause. “Assumed," Heavy said, quietly, "you be tired of the yellow."
Medic stood there. He was a man of data, he reminded himself again. Of variables. He processed. He took information, catalogued it, and forgot about it until it was needed.
He took the flowers; his hands were not entirely steady.
"...Yes," he said. "I am."