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ˢᵃᶤᵈ ᶤᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ
ʷᵒᶰ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵏᶰᵒʷ﹖
atlas sinclair
tagged: all
location: his house
feeling: flustered
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If there were one thing Atlas couldn't stand, it was being late. He, by nature, was a punctual young man and thus he was ready to leave far before the scheduled time. This left him nearly a half hour to pace his house, check and recheck his bags and even to change his outfit about ten times. He got really flustered when he had to wait for something exciting and had to keep reminding himself that the others weren't late--he was merely ready early.
His honey-blonde hair, darker near the roots, was styled wildly above his head in his typical quiff. He'd spent far too much of his extra time just staring in the mirror and attempting to perfect it, so now everything about it was bothering him. His tawny-hazel eyes had stared down every last strand with a fiery passion until one would guess the hairs themselves would be terrified to even budge. He'd texted all of his friends a quick message fifteen minutes before they were supposed to arrive. It read, "if you are not in my house in fifteen minutes you'll be in your grave instead". Of course, he was being sarcastic... mostly. They were all used to how sassy Atlas could get at times, though, and they were all very aware of his punctuality. To say they were warned would be an understatement.
Finally, with ten minutes left before arrival time, Atlas allowed himself to take his bag out to his car. The narrow, steep stairway in his old, Victorian-style home proved itself to be quite the obstacle and Atlas was sure he looked like a comedy act straight out of Saturday Night Live. He could have used some help during his struggle, but his parents had left an hour before to go to a work-related dinner party. There was no one there to witness the hilarity. "I'm too twiggy for this," Atlas thought to himself, cursing under his breath as the bag got caught on the banister once again. He finally exhaled in a breath of irritation and released the bag. It came loose from its lodging and proceeded to bop down the stairs before landing--quite heavily--on the wood floors below. He followed after, reaching up to run his hands through his hair... which was now messed up. He groaned and laughed curtly under his breath as if saying "oh, you little..." before standing and dragging his bag with him.
He had packed a very small suitcase for the trip. They were leaving that night--a Friday--and not coming back until Monday morning. With a lot to do and lots of places to see, he had needed to pack enough to be comfortable and a little duffel bag would not have covered it. As it was, he was wearing quite a few layers; tan jeans tucked into his signature beaten-up, black combat boots, a black wife-beater underneath a blue and black plaid flannel. His family crest was cold against his chest where it was hidden beneath his wife beater, only a hint of the small silver chain visible. He fit the perfect image of a kid that would leave town with his friends to go to some indie concert across Lake Michigan. He chuckled to himself at the thought as he carefully fit his luggage into the back of the black SUV he was going to be driving.
By the time he'd managed that, there were only a few minutes left until it was time for his friends to get there. He pulled his phone from his pocket, leaning against the back of the vehicle and crossing his legs at his ankles. Delicately sliding his thumb across the screen to unlock it, he peeked up through his eyelashes to see if anyone was coming down the street. "That'd be the day," he thought to himself, rolling his eyes. As if they would ever be early. His thumbs darted across the screen as he sent a text out to his two closest friends; "hey babe, i miss you <3" and "on your way yet? :)" to Wren and Shea... in that order, of course.
