THE BASICS
name: apollo edward abrams birthdate and age: 1st august 1980 (40) birthplace: london, uk gender and pronouns: cis male, he/him nationality: greek/english power: fire breath
THE APPEARANCE
height: 6'/1.83m hair color: brown, plenty of white hairs eye color: brown (left), white and blind (right) scars: severe burn scars mostly on his right side, they begin on his upper thighs and spread up his torso, down his arms and all the way to his neck and jaw, with a few spots on his face as well tattoos: icarus falling on his left ribcage
THE BACKGROUND
home: lived between london, athens and los angeles family: elias abrams (father), talia watkinson-abrams (mother), -name tbd- (husband) occupation: heir to the abrams shipping company, model, life enjoyer languages: bilingual english/greek, fluent french
FULL BIOGRAPHY
tw drugs, eating disorders, motor accident
They say you were born with a smile that could change the world, but honestly, why would you want it changed? The only son and sole heir of the empire that is your fatherâs company, going back almost a century of Greek shipowning tradition, your future and fortune is set for life. Your last name carries billions, but your parents still parade you around like you are their most prized possession- they name you after the god of the sun, and shining comes naturally to you.
Your father teaches you that money is power. Your mother, who everyone says you take after, shows you that looks can be just as disarming. You learn that charm is like gasoline in the fire that genetics graced you with, so by the time you hit adulthood you can recite Shakespeare from memory just as easily as you can bench press double your weight, and just as perfectly.
Because perfect is all you allow yourself to be. You worship your beauty like a god, a wrathful and granting and punishing one. Every hour at the gym, every calorie counted, every classic book reread to the point of revulsion, itâs seemingly worth it when you see your face on the cover of the most renowned magazines, when the public eye praises the young man youâve become in issue after issue, post after post.Â
Even when you start to slip up, break under the weight, your innate sense of damage control is in constant overdrive. You make yourself throw up every time you get too drunk, you only buy the best quality of drugs, your bodyguards are of the highest training to make sure you donât embarrass yourself and your family by doing something stupid like accidentally overdosing.
You marry your first wife because your parents tell you you should. You marry the second one because your parents tell you you shouldnât. You marry your husband out of love, the only person whose eyes you can look into and admire the color instead of using them as a mirror. He teaches you to enjoy things without worrying you are being constantly watched, buys you books that you donât have to memorize, makes you dance and sing out of tune and tempo for once.
And then your life changes overnight. You canât tell whose fault it was, you donât even remember the minutes leading up to it anymore, but one moment you are on your motorcycle going home, the next there is fire, the next there is darkness. You wake up weeks later in a hospital in Switzerland, covered in bandages and tubes, burns embracing your thighs and torso, licking their way up to your neck and part of your face like branches of a hideous tree. One eye left white and unmoving. In a great irony, your award winning smile remains unscathed, as does the tattoo of falling Icarus on your ribcage, still there to remind you what happens when you fly too close to the sun.
You have to learn to walk again, those muscles you have worked so hard on left somewhere on that ICU bed. You have to learn to talk, your voice deep and uneven after the tube leaves your vocal cords. And amidst all that, you are alone. Itâs only doctors and nurses and physiotherapists who refuse to answer your questions and you wonder if itâs so easy to be forgotten when you stop being perfect.Â
The answer never comes. You wake up on the cruise ship and for a moment you wonder if it was all a bad dream. But you catch your reflection in the mirror and you see that whatever âbeforeâ was, the bad found its way to âafterâ just fine. Everything is new and unknown, and you are almost scared by how liberating it all feels.
HEADCANONS
A very possible scenario in his head is that he died from his injuries and the island is some sort of purgatory or afterlife.
He is trying to keep up the charming laid back persona that comes instinctively to him, but he is deeply insecure and scared that people will see right through his facade and judge him.
Even though the last few months of his time before the island were spent in a hospital/rehabilitation center, which was a rather humbling experience, he is still deeply spoiled and materialistic and misses his private jet and fancy wine cellar more than he would ever admit.
He is wearing a lot of turtlenecks in an effort to hide as much of his skin as possible, but probably won't be able to keep it up for much longer.
