So say what you need to bear what you must i know we can mend these fragments of trust So with steady hands and steady h e a r t s We can fix what's fell apart
.･:*:･ﾟ ’ MASON TYLER, a TWENTY SIX year old CIS MAN/HE/HIM works as an PHOTOGRAPHER who came from BROOKLYN roots. while they were attending ST JUDE’S they were known as THE MERCURIAL because they could be very CYNICAL. those closest to them say they’re quite TALENTED though. to get a better understanding of who they are, some things you may notice about them are THE CLICK OF A CAMERA AND ITS FLASH, ALWAYS BEING BEHIND A CAMERA AND NEVER IN FRONT OF IT, SNIDE REMARKS AND AN ANGRY EXPRESSION. you may have mistaken them for DOMINIC SHERWOOD (bea, 22, est)
hey what’s up hello i’m bea. this is mason. my baby. my son. my stars. i’d die for him. he’d die for nothing but his camera, the self-absorbed asshole. below the cut is an about.
mason tyler. born and raised in brooklyn. the boy with a camera. the boy with an eye for detail. breaks from school to go on shoots. an angry man. broken, unexplainably so. expression comes through photograph. a sharp jaw. sharper words. sarcasm instead of blood in his veins. a penchant for chinese takeout. peppermint lip balm. a camera's shutter. a half-packed apartment. a pulitzer prize, dusty and forgotten.
how do you explain yourself ? you went from nothing to everything in the blink of an eye. you started as nothing. a boy in brooklyn. a kid forgettable to everyone who passed you on the street. you were second best at every sport, forgettable in school clubs. you were nothing. it’s simple.
but then, something changed.
your father went on a trip to south america, you came along. you were meant to be on a mission trip, building houses and working at churches. someone tossed you a camera and that was it. that was your defining moment in life. you took pictures of everything. of kids playing soccer with balls that were falling apart. of adults, huddled together, with coffee and conversation.
no one noticed you.
not until you got home.
your father remarked that your pictures were incredible. you had a gift. suddenly, your father said everyone needed to see them. you were talented. suddenly, you were something. within a few months, your photos were hanging in galleries, they were reprinted in magazines. you were given awards men three times your age dreamed of.
they called you a prodigy.
but you were twelve.
you lived in a small apartment in brooklyn.
at least, you did when you weren’t on shoots. you shot for time and national geographic. your parents never asked if you wanted to, but time after time, you were whisked away to exotic places. you liked it, sure, but sometimes you’d have rather been playing spyro on your playstation. you couldn’t tell anyone that though. instead, you listened to praises thrown at you. you kept taking photos.
that was the one consistent thing in your life.
you see, your parents divorced. your mom moved to california. you stayed in brooklyn with your father. weekends were for quick trips — to anywhere, to everywhere — weekends were to practice your craft. suddenly, it was all you could do.
you couldn’t say you didn’t love photography. it was the one thing you were ever good at.
it was what you became.
mason the photographer. mason with the camera. there was never just mason.
maybe that’s why you began pulling away from people in high school. maybe it’s why you began to find yourself alone more often than not. by twenty-six, more than half of your life had been spent behind a camera. you were a success, you would never want for work so long as you had a camera in hand.
but the idea of being something else haunted you. you became what was expected of you and you never had a choice. you love it. but still you wonder what if things had been different.
you think about disappearing sometimes. you could do it. your mark on the world has already been made, what is there left to do ?
headcanons
he used to do primarily nature photography, but sometime in high school, he started going to hollywood to do photoshoots there. there were movie promos and magazine spreads, and suddenly it was all he did. models, actors -- if there was a big name, they wanted to be shot by mason tyler.
he has a flat in brooklyn, not too far from his father’s place. it’s tiny and compact, and god is it cluttered. but it’s his. and it’s quiet. it’s perfect. there are floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. his futon has a quilt his grandmother made. the coffee table has leftover cups that are days ( weeks ? ) old, half full with coffee remnants ( two sugars, no cream )
he won the pulitzer prize for photography at twenty-one. he doesn’t talk about it.
with him always is a tan messenger bag. in it is at least four pens, his camera, a film camera, film, a charger, his phone, his business cards, and his wallet. if it’s not around, something is wrong. it’s scuffed and old, and the strap has been sewn back on at least three times. he can’t bring himself to buy something new.
tell me a piece of your history that you've never said out loud
pull the rug beneath my feet and shake me to the ground
wrap me around your fingers, break the silence open wide
before it seeps into my ears and fills me up from the inside
the door closes and suddenly you’re different. the facade slips off of slouched shoulders and thinking back about the day is exhausting. where did you go wrong ? you tried so hard, and maybe once you were happy but you could never say that now. at least, you couldn’t do so honestly. regrets fill your mouth and they choke you because you can never say them aloud. you have too many apologies to offer, and too many fears to admit. you want to fix things. you want to sew up the wounds you’ve caused others, you want the breaks and fractures to heal. maybe your soul isn’t gentle, but it isn’t as marble-tough as so many people believe it to be.
obsession and vices are easy. you can smoke a cigarette or chain smoke half the pack. then you can throw back another shot and put on a smile on -- one that no one could ever consider kind or genuine. no one questions your image. why would they ? you exist behind the camera, and once it’s out of your hands you’re nothing more than a figment of their imagination. you’re not worth it. and so you act like you don’t care. you think that it’s easier not to. you ignore and you lash out. you complain and you moan. nothing’s good enough. no one’s good enough. solitude becomes you.
UNBELIEVERS by vampire weekend — SABOTAGE by amy stroup — TELL THE TRUTH by dams of the west — THE DEVIL YOU KNOW by x ambassadors — TEN & TRUE by james quick — ROBBERS by the 1975 — BROTHER by kodaline — ALL WE DO by oh wonder — DARK BLUE by jack’s mannequin — SOMEONE NEW by hozier — CONTRA by vampire weekend — SILHOUETTES by colony house — YES YES WE’RE MAGICIANS by the crookes — SHAKE IT OUT by florence and the machine
so some of these songs i do relate to mason ( sabotage, tell the truth, the devil you know, as well as ten & true ) some of the lyrics from those i picked out that i think especially relate are:
i don’t have time to sabotage anything else i’ve gotta do the right thing now i’ve gotta find the right way out
tell the truth keep your word promise something then deliver it you’re not bulletproof that’s absurd no one is and you’re no different
‘cause it’s better to know the devil you know than the devil you don’t ‘cause where you go with the devil you know you’re never alone
and i had let go of my dreams of making my way and i lost all hope because of fear and people saying there’s no way
um i honestly think that mason would listen to like weird indie pop rock and shit like that so especially like hozier, vampire weekend, the 1975, kodaline, and the crookes ( also @ paige / @demcdici listen to brothers by kodaline & cry with me please & thank )
so like a lot of the rest of the songs are things mason has on his phone
and then shake it out by florence and the machine will eventually become mason’s anthem if he ever gets over himself. will that happen? who knows. but /potential/.
You're dripping like a saturated sunrise
You're spilling like an overflowing sink
You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece
And now you're tearing through the pages and the ink
