Yes, that’s it, Quinnie, keep talking. Keep up your polite, mindless, not-really-interested-in-anything-except-taking-the-weight-off-your-swollen-ankles chattering. It’s white noise now, much like the sound of the waves breaking against the sides of the ship and the various whirrings and hummings and buzzings that Kurt has no interest in whatsoever. He may have grown up the son of an automobile mogul, and he may be the only person present who actually knows what goes on underneath the hood of a car, but he doesn’t care a blessed thing about how the Titanic sails. It’s not a ship of dreams, it’s not a miracle of modern engineering.

It’s a big oversize boat, a way to get from point A to point B. Nothing more.

But Kurt’s been in a blissful state of numbness all day, and Captain Figgins’s lengthy explanation of why there are two steering wheels -- like most people, the captain was never so eloquent as when he had an audience -- was actually helping with that. Dressed in blue and white, tall and silent and remote, Kurt’s legs moved mechanically along the deck, following the numerous other first-class folks who’d asked Figgins and Mr. Schuester for a tour of the ship.

The sun was shining and the breeze was blowing and Schuester was elaborating on blueprints and bulkheads and mentioning something about the silliness of having lifeboats on an unsinkable ship at all, and explaining that they’d only put a few on, in the end, for just this reason -- and Kurt wasn’t listening to a word. He was ice, he was air, he would never feel anything or cry over anyone ever again, and he --

--would suddenly feel a familiar hand grasping his upper arm and tugging him back, through a door, into some sort of exercise room, and then he was up against the wall and looking into Blaine Anderson’s bright, pleading eyes and oh god, the ice was starting to melt, just like that.

“...that isn’t your hat.” It wasn’t the most eloquent thing Kurt had ever said, but under the circumstances, with Blaine’s fingers curled around his arm and his face inches away, it was the best he could manage.

Besides, Blaine didn’t even seem to hear, reaching up and pushing the black silk bowler -- which didn’t suit him at all; a top hat would’ve been better, or even a fedora -- back on his rumpled black curls. “I need to talk to you.”

“Where did you get that hat?” Kurt continued, rambling a little, all in one breath. “Did you steal it? You must’ve, it looks like something an old man would wear. Why are you grabbing my arm?” Blaine frowned a little, but let go of Kurt, who moved back as much as he was able, straightening his clothes and inhaling and exhaling slowly. Ice. Air. Water. Something cold and unfeeling. “I need to get back. I’ll be missed.”

“Just hear me out, please, Kurt.” And there was a note of begging and desperation in Blaine’s voice, like nothing Kurt had ever heard before, not even two days ago, when he was hanging off the back of the ship. It was like Blaine was more worried now about losing Kurt than he had been then, because this time holding his hand wouldn’t be enough.

“There’s nothing left to say, Mr. Anderson,” and Blaine flinched, oh god, he flinched and drew back and everything in Kurt was screaming at him to stop talking, to reach up and take off that stupid hat and run his fingers through those curls and make it clear just how much he didn’t want to say this, “and I need to go.”

“You don’t want to do this, Kurt. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life walking two steps behind someone, going where they tell you to go and doing what they tell you to do.” Blaine was reaching up again, fingers hovering inches from Kurt’s shoulders, looking so desperate, so vulnerable. Gone was the cocky, self-assured man from dinner and the party last night. This was a boy, who didn’t know how to say what he wanted to, who couldn’t make the one person he needed in his life understand.

It was getting harder and harder to close himself off from Blaine. Kurt’s head ached from the force of keeping his gaze trained on a spot somewhere over the other boy’s shoulder, not wanting to make eye contact, because when he did, it’d all be over. “I’m going to get married,” he said in a voice that sounded dull, even to his own ears. “And I’m going to be very happy.”

“No you aren’t. People like you can’t be happy, not like that.”

Kurt froze, David’s words echoing in his head -- unnatural, abnormal, infectious, damned. Was this it, then? Was this when Blaine revealed that he knew, that he’d always known, that he could see or feel what his touch and his voice did to Kurt, that it was painfully aware how much the first-class boy wanted him? Frightened, Kurt did what he promised he wouldn’t do -- he looked into Blaine’s eyes. “People like me?” he repeated, slowly, arms crossing over his chest, waiting for the inevitable disgust.

But he found none. There was nothing but that earnest and honest pleading in Blaine’s face, nothing but gentleness in his touch when he finally rested his hand on Kurt’s shoulder, nothing but softness in his voice when he spoke. “People who are...who are strong and brave and brilliant, who say and think things that nobody else has the courage to, who are so...so bright that it hurts to look at them sometimes.” Blaine hesitated, licking his lips, fingers squeezing gently at Kurt’s shoulder, as if to steady himself. “Kurt, I’ve never...met anyone like you before. I’ve never known anyone who...does things to me like you do, who moves me as much as you do.”

Kurt was barely aware that he was trembling, that Blaine’s other hand was coming up and gripping his other shoulder, roughened fingers curling against the soft silk. “What are you saying?” he managed in a hoarse whisper, biting his lower lip hard.

Blaine managed a small smile, one hand moving to rest, featherlight, along Kurt’s jaw, thumb prodding gently at his lip, prompting him to stop biting down. “I don’t want...I can’t just make myself stop seeing you. Not without knowing if--”

“Stop.” Kurt moved back, turned his head, feeling his eyes burn, crossing his arms so tightly they ached. He must be hearing things or...or maybe Dave had been right, maybe he’d infected Blaine, corrupted him, made him feel unnatural things. But if that was so, then how come the touch on his arm and his face was so gentle, so tender, without any of the roughness Kurt was so used to? “You need to stop. You need to go, you need to forget about me, you need...we can’t...Blaine...”

“I can’t. Remember?” Blaine offered a sad smile that was entirely missed, because Kurt was firmly looking at the floor. “Natural sense of honor. If I leave now, without knowing if you’re going to be all right, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

“Why wouldn’t I be all right?” Kurt replied, trying to make his voice harsh and ultimately only succeeding in making it waver and crack.

And then Blaine’s hand was back on his face and Kurt was hating everything inside him, every fiber of his being, every beat of his heart, because he was looking back, he was locking eyes with this boy who’d consumed him completely, who was so beautiful and perfect and brave that resisting him was tearing at his heart. There was tangible pain, like something broken or bleeding, because that look in those eyes had to be because of something else, because there was no possible way that someone as without flaw as Blaine Anderson was guilty of loving another man.

But feeling those fingers tracing along his cheek and watching the way Blaine’s eyes couldn’t decide whether to settle on his lips or his eyes, Kurt’s rebellious thoughts suggested that, if there was even the slightest chance that these feelings were reciprocal, then there was no way they could be really wrong.

“Because you need to be free. You need to be able to stand tall and breathe easily and run and shout and dance and sing without anyone holding you back. And if you stay with...with those people, then you’re going to drown.” Blaine moved forward, and it would be so so easy to mimic him, to find out for sure if he was as warm and strong and perfect all over as Kurt imagined he was.

In fact, Kurt almost did, almost surrendered to the wild imagining that Blaine wasn’t just speaking as a concerned observer, that he wanted Kurt to be free so they could be together. His lips parted and he gave Blaine a look that was full of all the things he couldn’t say. And what eventually came out was -- “Y-You can’t save me, Blaine. And you shouldn’t expect yourself to.”

Blaine frowned a little, then sighed, dropping his hand from Kurt’s face, twining his fingers with the first-class boy’s cold, pale ones instead. “You’re right. And I don’t. Because I know for a fact that you’re strong enough to save yourself. And...and if doing that somehow involves me...” He trailed off, then swallowed hard, eyes suspiciously bright as he forced a smile. “Then I’ll be there. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“...I need to go.” It was like pouring salt in a wound, but Kurt forced himself to pull his hands away, to turn and walk out, to not look back to see if Blaine was disappointed or hopeful or -- god forbid -- relieved. He hurried to rejoin the tour group, trying not to let his own imminent tears show, trying not to let himself think about what Blaine had meant. It was a silly, pointless, ridiculous dream, his own imagination running away with him, because whatever else he’d been trying to say, Blaine most certainly hadn’t been saying that. He hadn’t been trying to tell Kurt that he cared about him, wanted to take care of him, loved him.

...right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunsets on the sea were always so pretty. The reds and yellows and oranges all seemed ten times brighter and more brilliant when they were echoed on the endless rolling waves and swells of the ocean. And when you added in the salt air and the cool breeze and that wild and overpowering scent that had so many sailors composing their own hymns to the sea...well, Kurt could see how you could get addicted to it.

And yet, standing a few feet back from the bow, tugging his jacket a little closer around himself, feeling the wind ruffle his hair and take away the uncomfortably hot feeling that being in the dining room always gave him, he found that he wasn’t paying the sunset any attention. His eyes were fixed on the figure standing by the railing, slumped over, shoulders and back bowed, head down. Waiting.

Just like he’d promised.

“...hello,” Kurt said finally, softly, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d been heard. But then the head lifted and the shoulders straightened and he turned, and maybe Kurt had imagined the sadness in his stance, because the look on Blaine’s face was nothing but warm. It almost seemed like he’d been expecting this, had known all along what Kurt would decide.

Which was sort of silly, because he had no way of knowing what the rest of Kurt’s day had been like, how he’d trailed along after Sue and done the by-now-instinctive dance of parties and brunches and polite conversation. How he’d turned Blaine’s words over and over in his head, how he’d thought and fretted and worried and second-guessed himself a million times. How things had come to a head, once again, while sitting at the dinner table and hearing his society friends chatter about his impending wedding, and realizing that he had no idea what they were talking about. They spoke of colors and flowers and styles of gown and who would be there, and it was like they were talking about someone else.

And he’d suddenly wanted to interrupt, wanted to say how silly it was that they were talking about this, about a woman he’d never met in a place that wasn’t home. He’d wanted to tell everyone in the whole room, in the whole world about how the touch of a penniless, homeless, gorgeous boy was more familiar and more right than anything else in the world. He’d wanted to tell them that he didn’t care if he was imagining things and he didn’t care if Blaine didn’t feel the same and he didn’t care about anything but going and finding the one person in the whole world who cared what he thought and what he wanted and was waiting for him.

Kurt had been rehearsing how he was going to say this, but all his words went away when Blaine turned around and smiled at him like that and held out his hand. Everything else vanished, and the only thing left to do was the most natural thing in the world.

Taking the offered hand, Kurt let himself be tugged forward until he was standing, face-to-face with Blaine, smiling back in a way that he hoped was apology and thanks all in one. The only sound was the waves crashing against the bow of the ship and the seagulls crying and his own heart thudding against his ribs, because he hadn’t made it all up in his head. It was real, it was standing in front of him and holding his hands, and how could he have ever thought this feeling was wrong?

“I wanna show you something.” With one of those soft, secret smiles, Blaine turned, leading Kurt back to the railing he’d been leaning on. “Close your eyes, okay?”

“Okay,” Kurt managed, breathless for some reason, shutting his eyes and exhaling, shakily. He felt Blaine pull him forward again, felt the cold metal of the railing under his hand, felt the hands moving down to rest at his waist, steadying him.

“Step up,” and Blaine’s lips were so close to his ear, his voice was so soft it was nearly drowned out by the wind and the waves, and Kurt didn’t want to obey, didn’t want to move away from where he was, with Blaine’s front pressed against his back, Blaine’s hands on his hips, Blaine’s breath on his neck. But he did, gripping onto the railing and climbing up, a little clumsily, one, two, three, until the topmost railing was just below his knees. He lifted his arms out a little, for balance, and felt Blaine take his hands again -- the other boy must be standing on something, so he was the same height as Kurt.

“What are we doing?” Kurt asked, half-laughing, half-nervous. There was something familiar about this, him on a railing, Blaine Anderson holding his hands. But this time it wasn’t full of fear and uncertainty and despair. Everything felt safe and right and secure, especially when Blaine slowly moved his hands back to Kurt’s waist, then slid them around to fold over his stomach, holding onto him tightly, resting his chin on Kurt’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together.

“Open your eyes,” he murmured, squeezing Kurt’s waist, gently.

Kurt obeyed, then drew in his breath, in a delighted gasp. Standing at the front of the ship, with nothing between him and the water, nothing holding him back except for Blaine’s arms, nothing else except them -- it was like flying, like at any moment he could just rise up and leave the whole world behind. It was like freedom.

And yet, rather than enjoying the wind in his hair and the ocean spread out below him, glittering in the sunset, Kurt turned a little, one hand coming down to rest on Blaine’s laced-together fingers, the other sliding up and through the wild, untamed curls, the way he’d been wanting to since the moment he met this boy.

Standing like that, Blaine’s arms around his waist, chest to back, eye to eye, felt like being touched for the first time, new and thrilling and familiar all at once. So, when Kurt closed his eyes again and Blaine leaned forward that last inch or so and their lips touched for the first time, it was tentative, tender, hesitant and perfect.

Blaine Anderson was eighteen years old. He rarely thought further ahead than his next meal. He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. He didn’t know that the ship he was standing on was doomed. He didn’t know that the sunset that bathed him and Kurt in gentle golden light as they kissed was his last one.

He didn’t know that he would never see the sun again.

And in that moment, even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. After all, he was holding daylight in his arms, he was kissing the dawn, and nothing else mattered.