The Heart of Him

ENO

Why are hospitals always so white? Innocence is out of the question, so then what? There aren't any sort of battles going on within the walls, unless you count the unfortunates who are behind them fighting for life itself, but other than those valiant efforts, why not paint the walls red? Too cliche?

"Mr. Malik?"

Zayn's eyes dart back to the receptionist in front of him, abandoning his inner analysis on the origin of medical centers' blindingly white walls to attend to the woman that had called for his attention.

"Dr. Twicken's running late from a meeting, but he mentioned beforehand that if you got here early, you're welcome to wait for him in his office. Down this hall," the young female gestures to the corridor on her left. "Room 608."

Out of courtesy, Zayn sends the woman a closed mouth smile in reply. "Thank you."

As he walks down the specified hallway, the twenty-six year old's pulled back into the mysterious lure of the whitewash that now encloses him within a narrow pathway. His light brown eyes trail over the room numbers and name tags of their inhabitants in between studying the walls' lifecycle by way of picking out the poorly matched shades of white layered on top of one another. Maybe it's a colour chosen without any purpose at all. Maybe when hospitals were becoming popular buildings, white was the cheapest paint available. The rich blues that saturate the royal portraits of the fourteenth century came to be due to the expensive pigment price indicating the wealth of the individual portrayed; it's completely feasible that cost was the deciding factor and not a commentary on something else.

Room 608

William Twicken, M.D., Director of Surgical Sciences, Oxford University

Peering into the door's small window, Zayn can see a man going through a file cabinet on the right side of the room.

He's wearing a long white lab coat and a light blue shirt underneath, its collar peeking out above the uniform. Zayn can only make out half of his profile, but that's enough to know that whosoever it is, isn't Dr. Twicken; on top of looking nothing like the profile picture next to the Director's bio on Oxford's departmental directory, the man's much too young to have thirty years of experience in cardiology. Hell, he hardly looks a day older than Zayn.

The sound of the metal door handle being pushed down grabs the man's attention, Zayn taking a few cautionary steps in once his slim figure can fit through the opening.

"Dr. Twicken should be back any minute," the man says as soon as he spends a split second clocking another presence in the room.

Right as he's about to respond, Zayn watches the man do a double take, the folders beneath his fingers forgotten. He's got a much darker set of brown eyes than Zayn, although the black framed glasses they live behind is something they do share.

A rush of worry comes over Zayn at the reaction. Immediately, he looks down at his deep green jumper, a white shirt underneath, as made evident by the collar that's peaking out around his neck. No stains. He hasn't had anything to eat recently, but Zayn still runs a hand around his short black beard to ensure it's not a mess and the reason why the man had stopped in his tracks. The brown leather portfolio in his left hand starts to become sweaty from his tightening grip.

"I can come back if you're busy," Zayn offers, breaking the momentary silence that's been created.

"No, it's alright. I was just looking for some material for a lab I'm helping with." Dazed - for what reason, Zayn's not sure - the male looks to gather himself after a few seconds. "Liam," he reaches out his right hand after pulling out the tan folder he was flicking through prior to Zayn's arrival.