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H E I G H TXANDXB U I L D: 5'11, thin
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A head held high with white privilege and shoulders squared from good posture being beaten into him, Atlas often appears taller than 5'11" at first glance. He walks with a confident strut and speaks with a well mannered monotone that is neither high pitched enough to be annoying nor low enough to be considered soothing.
The blonde hair is natural, although his roots stay dark, and misfitting of every love story about a blonde haired, blue eyed boy - Atlas' are brown. His ears were pierced as a teen, but he let them grow in during college, and these days only a septum ring adorns his face (although he flips it up when he's doing rounds). His tattoos, for the most part, are a mess where aesthetic wasn't considered: a small anchor, heart, and cross adorn his left collarbone for his father, mother, and favored grandfather respectively. The word 'KISS' is scribbled across his abdomen, a drunken college decision he doesn't particularly like to talk about, and on his ribcage he has a Danish proverb, Don't speak unless you can improve on the silence.
With a penchant for the color black, it's not uncommon to find him smartly layered in the colors, preferring brand names above comfort and accessories to match. He was taught that clothes were the first impression for a man, and Atlas' can do the talking before his mouth does. They say: this man is very rich, very bored, and very uninterested - whatever you were going to approach him about is better left unsaid. If one manages to get passed the outfit, the resting bitch face will do the rest.
Perhaps the only interesting thing about Atlas' outward appearance are his nails - consistently painted a dark shade of red ever since someone decided to tell him that he 'didn't look gay enough'. These days, a cigarette is usually between his fingers. A habit he's picked up, despite being a doctor. After all, what does he have left to breathe for?
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A head held high with white privilege and shoulders squared from good posture being beaten into him, Atlas often appears taller than 5'11" at first glance. He walks with a confident strut and speaks with a well mannered monotone that is neither high pitched enough to be annoying nor low enough to be considered soothing.
The blonde hair is natural, although his roots stay dark, and misfitting of every love story about a blonde haired, blue eyed boy - Atlas' are brown. His ears were pierced as a teen, but he let them grow in during college, and these days only a septum ring adorns his face (although he flips it up when he's doing rounds). His tattoos, for the most part, are a mess where aesthetic wasn't considered: a small anchor, heart, and cross adorn his left collarbone for his father, mother, and favored grandfather respectively. The word 'KISS' is scribbled across his abdomen, a drunken college decision he doesn't particularly like to talk about, and on his ribcage he has a Danish proverb, Don't speak unless you can improve on the silence.
With a penchant for the color black, it's not uncommon to find him smartly layered in the colors, preferring brand names above comfort and accessories to match. He was taught that clothes were the first impression for a man, and Atlas' can do the talking before his mouth does. They say: this man is very rich, very bored, and very uninterested - whatever you were going to approach him about is better left unsaid. If one manages to get passed the outfit, the resting bitch face will do the rest.
Perhaps the only interesting thing about Atlas' outward appearance are his nails - consistently painted a dark shade of red ever since someone decided to tell him that he 'didn't look gay enough'. These days, a cigarette is usually between his fingers. A habit he's picked up, despite being a doctor. After all, what does he have left to breathe for?
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P E R S O N A L I T Y:
Brought up to be the King of the World, Atlas has always been a bit of a brat, believing the world revolved around him and what he wanted. He took to manners and calm talking and being too smart for his own damn good as a child, and just grew to be more insufferable with age. The real issue is that he can back up his words with his knowledge, which makes it hard to write him off and move on.
Atlas was always good at school, a quick learner who seemed to enjoy it, and a quiet kid who didn't bother his teachers unless he was specifically told he wasn't allowed to do something that he believed to be in his best interest. His parents thought he was perfect, his school councilor had other thoughts: Atlas didn't make friends, he didn't run or play, and he got quite upset if things weren't in exactly the right order. He didn't do well in group projects and he absolutely did not, under any circumstances, share. His parents attempted sending him to therapy, but when Atlas quite strongly said that he did not like it, well then. That was that. Atlas got what Atlas wanted.
He branched out a bit more in college, managed to make a few friends, relaxed with a few alcoholic beverages and became almost likable, but those who could put up with him weren't exactly the nicest people. Because Atlas isn't cheerful, he isn't funny or charismatic, he's muted - like a polaroid photograph whose colors never quite came in. Apathetic, unimpressed, and a bit too blunt for polite company, Atlas isn't friendly or easy to get along with.
It was this detachment that made people think he would make an excellent doctor. His bedside manor left little to be desired, but his mind was logical, sharp, and at the very least, he always told the truth. Atlas has never believed in sugar coating anything.
Q U I R K SXA N DXO D D I T I E S:
Has Mild OCD - Ambidextrous - Knows what every piece of silverware is for
F E A R S:
Failing at claiming a future outside of an office - His grandmother - Being alone
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Preston Atlas Blake was the product of too much boredom, too much champagne, and an opera house bathroom... which, coincidentally, are probably the same things his soul is made of. Despite the fact that his parents were really too young to be married, much less having children, the pregnancy was met with overwhelming joy. A perpetual only child, Atlas was spoiled rotten. No longer than it took him to ask for something was it in his hand, and the true meaning of 'need' was never a thing the kid felt. Surrounded by money, staff, parents who had nothing better to do, and extended family who thought they could bribe him into loving them, Atlas had it made.
In fact his only issues ever came from other people. An annoying side effect of conversing with the general population was the reminder that there was, in fact, a world out there that wasn't all about him. It should have been a sobering fact but instead Atlas decided to completely ignore it all together. He didn't need people, they needed him.
College sobered him slightly of this, but medical school did not. He was bright, smart, and perfect for his job (aside from bedside manner). His eight month sentence to Widow's Peak was meant to help with that - a small hospital that needed the extra hands and didn't have enough patients on the schedule to allow Atlas his excuse of having too much work for chitchat. He figured he'd get his work done and move to some bigger and better hospital.
But then Cassidy Aisling happened. A Cystic Fibrosis patient who chipped away at the worst parts of Atlas' personality until some stupid pun startled a laugh out of him. He can't even remember what it was now, just remembers the bright, excited grin on Cass' face. The one that seemed to be just for him, even though Cass smiled at everyone. That smile was different. He tried to be professional - he as a doctor, Cass was dying - something he'd never struggled with before. But as the months passed, their glances got longer, Atlas' touches lingered, and before he knew it he was taking his lunches in the seat next to Cass' bed and staying there long after his shift had ended.
Atlas wouldn't let himself think about it, about what it meant. Graham Aisling pulled him aside one day and asked him with knowing eyes and a thin pressed mouth, "You know my brother is dying, right?", and Atlas has snorted and said something about who was the doctor in their situation. He wouldn't let himself think about it until he heard the code, until every student and attending in that hospital was running for Cass' room, until he was shouting at them to get the fuck out of his way.
He did compressions for a full 48 minutes and 22 seconds before the Chief of Widow's Peak Hospital pulled him off. He stared, empty and shaking, at Cassidy's chest that wouldn't beat, the sound of his heart monitor flatlining the only thing he could process, despite people talking to him. He stared until they called Cass' death, at 19:13.
Everything after that was a blur. From taking off his coat and stethoscope and leaving them on the end of Cass' bed, to saying "I quit" and walking out of the hospital, to returning to his apartment and telling his landlord that his lease would no longer be temporary, to buying cigarettes and smoking the entire pack that night on his balcony.
He hasn't talked to his parents, or anyone else, sense. But he did buy yellow paint, and suddenly his living room is a lot brighter, even if no one knows it but him.
