You count four flecks of green in Wilson's eyes.
Between those hues—still and silent, as defined as whitewashed fencing—are the streaks of gold that ease languidly around his pupil. The rest is saturated in a deep brown, the color of pennies lost on pavement and baking beneath the sun. It's the color a stethoscope gets to if no one bothers to wipe the water from it after it's cleaned, you note. Just the same, Wilson's irises keep that rusty, burnt shade, hinting of a metallic glimmer. Most times.
Sometimes they're different. You can occasionally find him mulling over patients' daunting scans, and then he'll have eyes like cold coffee, shivering in cups. Over a glass of reassuring alcohol you've offered, they'll brim with depth, enhancing a relaxed, charcoal layer underneath. At other moments, they'll be piqued with amusement, or catch a shimmer with a drawn-out laugh. Sometimes they're guilt-trodden; sometimes they gleam with words unspoken. Sometimes—inanely—you won't chance a look.
But not today. Today, aggression is your safety net, and you pour your gaze right into the younger man's. In the quietness of his office, Wilson's eyes are a strong bronze, like replicas of third place medals hovering within his eyelids. They're distant, shielded and accusatory, and you revel in it. It's far safer to smirk, and it's far more interesting than the monotonous doldrums of honesty.
You could tell him what you see in those eyes, but that would be beyond ludicrous, worse than opaque. That would be weak.
Provokingly, you lean in closer, gripping the side of the oncologist's desk with your left hand. Some papers crinkle stiffly underneath, and a pen uselessly rolls to the side. Your right tightens around your cane. You're too entranced with the other man to realize your knuckles are stark white.
Peering boundlessly into Wilson's face, you decide to unravel him. Now. The oncologist's features, though, are pulled seamlessly tight. He's like a drawing done sparsely in graphite, with little shading, little detail, little emotion.
Except for what color his eyes are choosing to be. They're a splash of vibrant oils, of canvas-splaying acrylics.
You ask him again. You'll make him respond this time. Silence is not an option like it was this morning, stumbling in a haze from an impulsively shared bed, or avoiding you at the cafeteria, or finding excuses not to be in the same room with you. Your breath bounces like a challenge from Wilson's face and back once more, so that you can almost smell the spearmint tic-tacs you've swiped after lunch.
The younger man glances away hesitantly and shakes his head. His words can barely be heard over the rattling hum of the heater.
You nod. Slowly. Lessening your grip on the cane, you watch the stoic length of Wilson's eyebrows, trying to gauge a more revealing reaction from them. Nothing. His jawline clenches; his temples pulse beneath his precisely arranged bangs. And lips. His lips are just barely ruddy. It is completely impossible to determine who owned them a night before.
You process Wilson's answer like you do everything else. Then you just as quickly disregard it, being a stubborn creature of habit. Clinging to indifference, you ask if he's still coming by after work.
Wilson waits for your infamous sarcasm, but it has apparently missed its curtain call. His eyes have reached a tarnished state. Gold slivers fade into brown-crescent hues, conceding.
The oncologist nods. Slowly. And he counts four flecks of turquoise in your eyes.
