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ofscarletwomanAuthor: Tarie
Title: New York City, Center of the Universe
Pairing: Colin Creevey/Mark Cohen
Fandom: Harry Potter/Rent
Summary: Mark pretends to create and observe when he really detaches. Colin may do the same.
Word Count: 1,634
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: HP characters and universe do not belong to me. Neither does Rent.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
colouredlights. Because she is a vile enabler. Title comes from a line in the song "Santa Fe" from Rent. Present day.
As the royals' caravan drove away from Ground Zero, the crowd of photographers surged forward, vying for the best shot of the newly wed Charles and Camilla's entourage leaving the site. The crowd of photographers minus two, that was.
Mark was standing back from it all, panning and zooming when an interesting-looking shot was framed. No one else really paid him any mind; they didn't care about anything but themselves and the money shot. Mark had no problem whatsoever with not being noticed. He liked it that way, being invisible, being able to be an observer without being observed.
Before he'd made his way to Ground Zero that morning, he'd stopped by the Life Cafe for a cup of tea and conversation with Maureen, who'd known better than to ask if he was headed out to capture the Prince of Wales and The Duchess of Cornwall on film. Maybe if he'd stuck with Alexi Darling and her brand of vampiric journalism, that would have been his intention. But he hadn't, so it wasn't.
His latest project had nothing to do with Royals or celebrities or artists or protests. It had everything to do with documenting those who document happenings in the world around them.
Some of them looked as though they had long lost their passion for photography, for the moments here and there that carry a person home even when they're the furthest thing from. Some of them looked as though they hated point click shoot but did it over and over for the money and The money shot, if it ever came. It might, and it might not. Some of them looked as though photography was their passion, their lover, their lungs, their life.
And one of them looked as utterly out of place as Mark felt.
He was a slight man, maybe ten years younger than Mark. Maybe less. Wasn't dressed like a local, but then again most of the photographers weren't. Skin pale and pasty, mousy brown hair, and deep brown eyes that were a bit too big for his face. Interesting-looking.
When the crowd surged forward, he had stayed in place, pointing his ancient-looking camera in a completely different direction than Prince Charles' departing caravan.
Mark thought this was odd and he considered walking over to talk to the kid, but he wasn’t much for conversation these days – practically nonverbal, really – and he was pathetic when it came to small talk. So instead of calling over to him, Mark did the next best thing: zoom in on the kid.
The zoom set and the focus came in and out, which frustrated the hell out of Mark. He wanted to see the kid. He wanted to be able to read what was in his eyes, create an indelible image frame after frame of this kid, of this Seer.
“Steady,” Mark muttered, cursing as the focus went in and out.
Need to get closer, he decided after a few seconds, so he moved in. Closed in. This. This kid. This man. He was perfect. He was a documentary maker, a recorder of happenings, someone taking down the world in picture for posterity, and he was going against the crowd, against the money shot to do his own thing, capture his own image, be. Just be.
Just like Mark.
The kid knelt down and pulled out two small film canisters from his rucksack, so Mark panned down with him.
Steady. Steady. Tweak the zoom. Adjust focus. Pan left and--
Suddenly one of the canisters rolled across the pavement, headed right for Mark. The kid grew larger and larger in his lens and Mark had no choice but to sling the camera over his shoulder and stoop. He scooped up the canister and stood, holding his palm out to the kid.
“Might want to hang onto this,” Mark said, watching as the young man took the film from his hand.
“Should be more careful. Don’t want to bollix anything else up,” the kid said, and Mark was surprised to hear the accent on him.
“You’re British,” he blurted before he could stop himself.
“I am,” said the kid, a bright smile curving the corners of his mouth. “You’re not. You sound—You’re from right here, aren’t you?”
“New York, born and raised,” Mark replied, a hand fiddling with the strap about his shoulder. For some reason, he felt compelled to explain his outburst, even though he knew he should just move on and keep filming, pick another subject. “I just thought-- I saw you. You weren’t filming them.”
“I’m not here for them. I’m here for someone else. Colin Creevey is my name, by the way.” Colin Creevey tightened his red-and-gold striped scarf around his neck and stuffed the canister in a front pocket of his bag.
“Mark Cohen. I’m not here for anyone.” He pointed to his camera. “I’m here for myself, for--” Fuck, it was going to sound cheesy and he knew it, but he added it anyway. “For the art.”
“I’m with The Daily--”
“Telegraph?” Mark cut in, and Colin nodded quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. Pink tinged his cheeks just then and Mark wondered what he had to feel ashamed about. The Daily Telegraph was a prestigious paper. Obviously this kid had done well for himself in a short amount of time.
“Yeah,” Colin said. He paused, fiddling with the strap on his own bag, and then he lifted his eyes to Mark’s so quickly that Mark started. “I’m not here for the art. I dunno--” He looked even more embarrassed and Mark shifted his weight from foot to foot, perhaps in sympathy.
“What don’t you know?” Mark asked curiously, then abruptly closed his mouth. What was he doing? He didn’t know this kid. He hated small talk. He hated how the wind was chilling him to the bone. But most of all he hated how he could see some of himself in the kid, and how he somehow knew the kid could see some of himself in Mark.
“It’s cold,” Colin said instead of answering his question, and Mark nodded in agreement.
“Colder than a witch’s tit,” he said automatically, then he frowned. Roger used to say that. Roger used to say that and then they’d burn a few posters and screenplays and curse at the red light that was always blinking on the answering machine. Not that he’d be doing any of that with Roger ever again, because Roger was gone.
A flicker of something – Mark didn’t know what – went across Colin’s face at that remark and Mark felt like shit. He didn’t know which was worse – feeling like shit, or feeling like shit and not knowing why.
“Something like that,” Colin murmured, then glanced around. “Is that a pub?”
Mark looked to where Colin was pointing and nodded. “It’s a pub. One of the newer ones. Supposedly they’ve got good chips.”
“Have a lager with me,” Colin said. Mark didn’t have a chance to say yes or no; Colin headed across the street before Mark could fully process what he’d even just said.
Mark didn’t have just one lager with Colin Creevey. He had four, four more than he had intended to have and rent would now be late because lager in Manhattan cost an arm and two legs while the rent only cost one of each. Wouldn’t be the first time his rent was late and it wouldn’t be the last, he reasoned, so after four he went to five and treated Colin to the same.
Colin was a bit odd, but odd in a way that Mark could appreciate because he was odd just the same. Not odd in the exact way, but in spirit. Colin didn’t have a lot of friends, as it turned out, and neither did Mark. Many of the ones he’d had died – from living in the street, from starvation, most from the war on AIDS. Colin mentioned that some of his close friends died in the war, too, and Mark didn’t want to press it. He didn’t want to pry. It wasn’t like him to openly question, to probe, to seek. He was used to watching and listening and piecing the pictures together like a great big puzzle. That skin fit him well. This one, the skin of this person asking and prodding felt too tight all over and like it was riding up in places that things shouldn’t be ridden up.
Mark told Colin he was a watcher, and Colin answered that he was a seeker. He was seeking someone, someone missed from home, someone everyone knew one way or another, and the someone was supposed to have been at Ground Zero that morning, according to rumor. Watching Colin talk about the someone, Mark knew that he had somehow meant a lot to Colin. He wondered if the someone was Colin’s own Roger, or maybe even his own Benny – both people that had been capable of doing great things, and both lost one way or another.
Lost.
Colin had looked lost to Mark when he’d first seen him, lost like out of place. Like Mark.
One of Colin’s hands brushed against Mark’s when they both reached for the pile of chips between them, and Mark liked how his hand felt. Warm and worn, like it knew its way around a camera, around a lens, around a life.
Color deepened in Colin’s cheeks when Mark brushed his hand back but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t pull away and Mark thought it might be time to stop detaching and observing and to create.
So he did. He leaned in to create; his lips met Colin’s for a small, questioning kiss.
A beat, then there was pressure in return and Mark didn’t feel so out of place anymore.
Title: New York City, Center of the Universe
Pairing: Colin Creevey/Mark Cohen
Fandom: Harry Potter/Rent
Summary: Mark pretends to create and observe when he really detaches. Colin may do the same.
Word Count: 1,634
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: HP characters and universe do not belong to me. Neither does Rent.
Notes: For
colouredlights. Because she is a vile enabler. Title comes from a line in the song "Santa Fe" from Rent. Present day.As the royals' caravan drove away from Ground Zero, the crowd of photographers surged forward, vying for the best shot of the newly wed Charles and Camilla's entourage leaving the site. The crowd of photographers minus two, that was.
Mark was standing back from it all, panning and zooming when an interesting-looking shot was framed. No one else really paid him any mind; they didn't care about anything but themselves and the money shot. Mark had no problem whatsoever with not being noticed. He liked it that way, being invisible, being able to be an observer without being observed.
Before he'd made his way to Ground Zero that morning, he'd stopped by the Life Cafe for a cup of tea and conversation with Maureen, who'd known better than to ask if he was headed out to capture the Prince of Wales and The Duchess of Cornwall on film. Maybe if he'd stuck with Alexi Darling and her brand of vampiric journalism, that would have been his intention. But he hadn't, so it wasn't.
His latest project had nothing to do with Royals or celebrities or artists or protests. It had everything to do with documenting those who document happenings in the world around them.
Some of them looked as though they had long lost their passion for photography, for the moments here and there that carry a person home even when they're the furthest thing from. Some of them looked as though they hated point click shoot but did it over and over for the money and The money shot, if it ever came. It might, and it might not. Some of them looked as though photography was their passion, their lover, their lungs, their life.
And one of them looked as utterly out of place as Mark felt.
He was a slight man, maybe ten years younger than Mark. Maybe less. Wasn't dressed like a local, but then again most of the photographers weren't. Skin pale and pasty, mousy brown hair, and deep brown eyes that were a bit too big for his face. Interesting-looking.
When the crowd surged forward, he had stayed in place, pointing his ancient-looking camera in a completely different direction than Prince Charles' departing caravan.
Mark thought this was odd and he considered walking over to talk to the kid, but he wasn’t much for conversation these days – practically nonverbal, really – and he was pathetic when it came to small talk. So instead of calling over to him, Mark did the next best thing: zoom in on the kid.
The zoom set and the focus came in and out, which frustrated the hell out of Mark. He wanted to see the kid. He wanted to be able to read what was in his eyes, create an indelible image frame after frame of this kid, of this Seer.
“Steady,” Mark muttered, cursing as the focus went in and out.
Need to get closer, he decided after a few seconds, so he moved in. Closed in. This. This kid. This man. He was perfect. He was a documentary maker, a recorder of happenings, someone taking down the world in picture for posterity, and he was going against the crowd, against the money shot to do his own thing, capture his own image, be. Just be.
Just like Mark.
The kid knelt down and pulled out two small film canisters from his rucksack, so Mark panned down with him.
Steady. Steady. Tweak the zoom. Adjust focus. Pan left and--
Suddenly one of the canisters rolled across the pavement, headed right for Mark. The kid grew larger and larger in his lens and Mark had no choice but to sling the camera over his shoulder and stoop. He scooped up the canister and stood, holding his palm out to the kid.
“Might want to hang onto this,” Mark said, watching as the young man took the film from his hand.
“Should be more careful. Don’t want to bollix anything else up,” the kid said, and Mark was surprised to hear the accent on him.
“You’re British,” he blurted before he could stop himself.
“I am,” said the kid, a bright smile curving the corners of his mouth. “You’re not. You sound—You’re from right here, aren’t you?”
“New York, born and raised,” Mark replied, a hand fiddling with the strap about his shoulder. For some reason, he felt compelled to explain his outburst, even though he knew he should just move on and keep filming, pick another subject. “I just thought-- I saw you. You weren’t filming them.”
“I’m not here for them. I’m here for someone else. Colin Creevey is my name, by the way.” Colin Creevey tightened his red-and-gold striped scarf around his neck and stuffed the canister in a front pocket of his bag.
“Mark Cohen. I’m not here for anyone.” He pointed to his camera. “I’m here for myself, for--” Fuck, it was going to sound cheesy and he knew it, but he added it anyway. “For the art.”
“I’m with The Daily--”
“Telegraph?” Mark cut in, and Colin nodded quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. Pink tinged his cheeks just then and Mark wondered what he had to feel ashamed about. The Daily Telegraph was a prestigious paper. Obviously this kid had done well for himself in a short amount of time.
“Yeah,” Colin said. He paused, fiddling with the strap on his own bag, and then he lifted his eyes to Mark’s so quickly that Mark started. “I’m not here for the art. I dunno--” He looked even more embarrassed and Mark shifted his weight from foot to foot, perhaps in sympathy.
“What don’t you know?” Mark asked curiously, then abruptly closed his mouth. What was he doing? He didn’t know this kid. He hated small talk. He hated how the wind was chilling him to the bone. But most of all he hated how he could see some of himself in the kid, and how he somehow knew the kid could see some of himself in Mark.
“It’s cold,” Colin said instead of answering his question, and Mark nodded in agreement.
“Colder than a witch’s tit,” he said automatically, then he frowned. Roger used to say that. Roger used to say that and then they’d burn a few posters and screenplays and curse at the red light that was always blinking on the answering machine. Not that he’d be doing any of that with Roger ever again, because Roger was gone.
A flicker of something – Mark didn’t know what – went across Colin’s face at that remark and Mark felt like shit. He didn’t know which was worse – feeling like shit, or feeling like shit and not knowing why.
“Something like that,” Colin murmured, then glanced around. “Is that a pub?”
Mark looked to where Colin was pointing and nodded. “It’s a pub. One of the newer ones. Supposedly they’ve got good chips.”
“Have a lager with me,” Colin said. Mark didn’t have a chance to say yes or no; Colin headed across the street before Mark could fully process what he’d even just said.
Mark didn’t have just one lager with Colin Creevey. He had four, four more than he had intended to have and rent would now be late because lager in Manhattan cost an arm and two legs while the rent only cost one of each. Wouldn’t be the first time his rent was late and it wouldn’t be the last, he reasoned, so after four he went to five and treated Colin to the same.
Colin was a bit odd, but odd in a way that Mark could appreciate because he was odd just the same. Not odd in the exact way, but in spirit. Colin didn’t have a lot of friends, as it turned out, and neither did Mark. Many of the ones he’d had died – from living in the street, from starvation, most from the war on AIDS. Colin mentioned that some of his close friends died in the war, too, and Mark didn’t want to press it. He didn’t want to pry. It wasn’t like him to openly question, to probe, to seek. He was used to watching and listening and piecing the pictures together like a great big puzzle. That skin fit him well. This one, the skin of this person asking and prodding felt too tight all over and like it was riding up in places that things shouldn’t be ridden up.
Mark told Colin he was a watcher, and Colin answered that he was a seeker. He was seeking someone, someone missed from home, someone everyone knew one way or another, and the someone was supposed to have been at Ground Zero that morning, according to rumor. Watching Colin talk about the someone, Mark knew that he had somehow meant a lot to Colin. He wondered if the someone was Colin’s own Roger, or maybe even his own Benny – both people that had been capable of doing great things, and both lost one way or another.
Lost.
Colin had looked lost to Mark when he’d first seen him, lost like out of place. Like Mark.
One of Colin’s hands brushed against Mark’s when they both reached for the pile of chips between them, and Mark liked how his hand felt. Warm and worn, like it knew its way around a camera, around a lens, around a life.
Color deepened in Colin’s cheeks when Mark brushed his hand back but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t pull away and Mark thought it might be time to stop detaching and observing and to create.
So he did. He leaned in to create; his lips met Colin’s for a small, questioning kiss.
A beat, then there was pressure in return and Mark didn’t feel so out of place anymore.
