bohemian_mark | Not Of Milliways: Canon!Fic: Mark's Muse

Collins just wasn't one of those people who disappeared. Besides, it was getting late, and anyone with half a brain knows that Alphabet City is not the best place to be wandering around at night. Collins had too much brain for that. In fact, he used to harp about getting inside before the 'crazies' were out. Or at the very least, have someone with you and know where you were going. He wasn't on the street, he wasn't anywhere around. Fucking strange if Mark had anything to say about it.

So, he biked back to the Loft, to grab his stuff. Maureen -had- phoned, after all. Throwing open the door, he was greeted by a rather annoyed roommate. "Listen, I don't need... Oh, it's you."

"Of course it's me, who were you expecting? Arthur Dent?" Mark propped his bike against the wall. "Didn't find Collins. He didn't turn up here, did he?"

"No. I thought you'd found him and gone off to Maureen's protest." Roger blinks. "That's fucking odd. Not like Collins at all to just disappear..."

Roger's thought was cut off by the door opening again, Collins entering. Turning, Mark flips on his camera. Enter Tom Collins, computer genius, teacher, vagabond anarchist, who ran naked through the Parthenon.

Beaming, Collins handed over a plastic tub, filled with provisions, explaining that he was back from Boston, having been kicked out for his odd theories. There was, however, an odd sparkle in his eyes. To answer Mark and Roger's questions, he cleared off a table, and told them to sit. "Gentlemen, our benefactor on this Christmas eve, whose charity is only matched by talent, I believe... A new member of the Alphabet City Avant Guarde... Angel Dumott Schunard!"

Before Mark could even pick up his camera, Collins threw open the Loft door, and in came Angel, with a fan of twenties in each hand, handing money to both Mark and Roger. Before Mark could even process any of this, Angel had jumped on the table, and started singing, and dancing the tale of how he'd gotten the money in the first place.

It seemed to Mark, once he regained a bit of sense, that it was rather an amusing story. A rich woman had commissioned Angel to play percussion outside of a building to make a horribly yappy dog jump off a balcony. If it had been told by anyone other than Angel, he probably wouldn't have believed it. However, there was a veracity to Angel, an inherent truth in everything Angel sang, that, it had to be true. And really, the money in his hand didn't just appear out of nowhere.

Before long, Mark was filming the dance, filming Angel's passion for life, for, for others. Today for you, tomorrow for me. It's a mantra that Mark thought Roger could probably use a bit more of. As Mark's camera followed Angel around, through a drum solo, and then a rather dramatic finish, he realized, he could use more of it himself. And really, he could use more of Angel.

Quite obviously however, Collins had already claimed the new member of their group. One glance at the pair of them made that perfectly clear. And a smirk from Roger confirmed Mark's suspicions that it wasn't just himself who saw it. It was a shame really. Because, Angel was attractive. Not simply attractive in the way that Maureen was, but attractive in every way Mark could think of. Exciting, vivacious, and above all, seeming to love life, and wanting to share it with others.

It wasn't long, though, before the mood was shattered by the entrance of Benny, who simply succeeded in pissing everyone off. Not until a few months later, after Christmas, after New Year, did Mark realize what had really gone on in the Loft that day. He'd fallen for Angel. Not in a passionate way, like he'd fallen for Maureen, but in an almost hero-worshipping manner. Angel became Mark's muse and inspiration, the subject of most of his camera's shots, like Maureen had been.

He couldn't help but ask himself one day, if he'd be with Angel if given the chance. The question went unanswered, leaving as quietly as it had come into his mind. It wasn't something that would ever be possible, so Mark wouldn't think about it. Nothing could make him give up what he had, for something that wasn't possible. It would hurt too many people. So he went on, loving, filming, and never speaking. That's what happens when one is the witness. It was his place, it was who he was.

Word Count: 806