Shawn Mendes Imagines

Waiting Rooms

In which Y/N is sick and Shawn has a broken wrist. Late night meetings and an unlikely friendship ensue.

- - - - -

The yellow lights flicker above the waiting room in sequences, causing a continuous buzzing noise to sound. Slowly, seats fill row by row until there's only two left, yet it seems no one is called to be checked out. My foot taps aimlessly on the ground to a non-existent beat, a poor distraction from the ache in my stomach. Mindlessly chatter fills the air but I tune out, focusing instead on my breathing and not throwing up. Eyes fluttering closed, I chastise myself for leaving it so long before going to the doctor. Maybe then I wouldn't be here in a stuffy hospital at the dead of night.

I twist uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, desperately trying to find a position where my stomach isn't doing somersaults, but to no avail. Sighing, I open my eyes and scan the waiting room again before settling on the television in the corner playing reruns of an old soap that used to be on years ago. 

At some point a young nurse walks in, and everyone's eyes flick over on hope. He calls the name of a toddler sitting across from me in Batman pyjamas, wrapped in the arms of his mother as his eyes droop closed. The relief is evident on the mother's face and she follows quickly, leaving momentary silence in her wake. The room breathes a collect sigh before the mindless hushed voices return and I slump back into the rigid chair, my back groaning in protest.

My eyes, which I hadn't realised had closed, snap open in shock when I feel an arm brush against mine as someone drops into the empty seat beside me. The disappointment at losing the space to move around vanishes quickly when I notice the occupant, a young man with an unruly head of curls and an ashen face. A glance down betrays his predicament easily when my eyes fall upon his swollen wrist, the tattooed skin already bruising deep shades of purple.

Bored of the thoughts swirling aimlessly through my head and the frequent waves of nausea, I decide to speak to him. Judging by the pain flirting across his face and the lip caught tight between his teeth, it's not hard to guess he might need the distraction as well.

"Come here often?" I nudge his shoulder as gently as I can, thankful when all that happens is a widening of his eyes and not a groan of pain.
Unsure hazelnut eyes flicker over to mine and the regret sets in like stone. In hindsight, that might not have been the best opening line. But hindsight is a bitch.

"Yeah actually," the boy eventually says. "Can't seem to get enough of the place." The serious tone he uses almost has me convinced, but a slight twitch of the corner of his lip tells a different story.
"Strange habit to get into," I muse.
"What's stranger is you're not the first person to tell me that." He retaliates, eyes shining.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head slightly. "I'm Y/N."
"Shawn." His larger hand envelopes mine in a strong handshake, the skin cool.

A sudden burst of noise interrupts our introductions as the double doors at the end of the room open with a bang and a person is wheeled in on an ambulance bed. Blood gushes from an open head wound, staining the makeshift white bandage wrapped around it. A momentary flash of the face reveals a young man, no more than thirty years old.

His sharp, gasping breaths bleed into the deathly silence as the trolley races past our eyes and vanishes through an identical set of doors.

Low, broken sobs echo in my mind for a long time afterwards.

Hiding my trembling hands beneath my thighs, I turn to look at Shawn. Any colour that was left in his face previously has drained completely now, leaving a terror-stricken expression in its wake.