As previously established, David Karofsky was not a patient or gentle man. He put up a good facade of one, sitting in the gentlemen’s smoking room with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, making polite conversation about anything except his traveling companion’s absence at dinner earlier. But the fact was that Kurt hadn’t been seen by anyone of status since he’d abruptly walked out of the dining room, and this fact had Dave livid and seeing red.

He’d sent Azimio to use whatever means necessary -- his fists or his wallet -- to discern the wayward young man’s location, and yet here he was, a good half-hour later, with nothing. David had even ventured a step or two below deck, but had seen nothing but teeming unwashed masses. Even if Kurt had dubious taste in companions, he was a high proponent of hygiene.

And yet he was nowhere to be found in any of the spotless upper deck sitting rooms, lounges and/or veranda’s. It was like he’d vanished.

With that no-account third-class trash, no doubt. Dave had to suppress a shudder at the thought, well-aware that he’d most likely compromised his own integrity even further by touching Kurt after he’d associated with Blair or Bryan or whoever. Poverty wasn’t like dirt. It couldn’t be washed off. It festered and lingered and tarnished reputations rather than clothes.

It was his job to protect Kurt from that, to keep him from ruining the entire Karofsky family image. If this boy was going to marry his ward and live in the same house -- and fulfill certain other duties as well -- he was going to stay in good standing. Even if David had to lock him in the stateroom for the remainder of the voyage.

Now, exhaling shortly and taking a puff off his cigar, Karofsky turned and fixed Azimio with a cold, narrow-eyed glare. “Find him,” he said in a short, clipped tone of voice. “Find him and by all that’s holy, if he’s with that boy again, I swear to god...” He trailed off, feeling his heart pound and his fists clench around the glass and cigar alike. The thought of those common, unwashed, roughened hands on Kurt’s skin was enough to make Dave see red. He may not care much for his traveling companion as anything more than an outlet, but Kurt belonged. To. Him.

And if there was one thing Dave hated, it was other people touching his things.

With a great effort, he managed, through gritted teeth, “I trust you’ll deal with it, Azimio.”

The manservant nodded once, simply, then turned to scour the decks once again, leaving David to sit and brood and drink, and try not to think of Kurt and that boy together.

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

However, unbeknownst to said manservant and his increasingly-more-enraged employer, Kurt and Blaine were less than half a deck away, still in the Hummel-Sylvester-Karofsky staterooms. Granted they’d spent more time than strictly necessary on the piano bench, playing light little melodies and rollicking tunes and a few mournful, sad ballads. And once Blaine had started to melodramatically warble the hymns he’d heard earlier that morning, Kurt had laughed and pushed at him and that had ended up in Blaine’s roughened fingertips teasing at Kurt’s ribs and there had been squealing and giggling and --

Well. The long and short of it was that Kurt and Blaine’s mouths had spent a little more time getting acquainted than actually singing, after that. But after a few precious, too-short moments, Kurt had pulled away, conscious of their location, aware that they would need to make themselves scarce sooner or later. He didn’t particularly want David or Sue to walk in on them tangled up on the floor by the piano, with Kurt’s dressing gown down around his waist and Blaine’s curls mussed from being played with and stroked and tugged.

So he’d stood, reluctantly, with one last breathless, smiling kiss, and gone to change. Blaine had sprawled happily on the floor for a moment, smiling blissfully at nobody in particular, one of his suspenders dropping over his shoulder, his shirt untucked and his lips still tingling with Kurt’s taste. He’d never known that kisses could linger like that, tickling and bubbling, almost.

But he eventually got to his feet, adjusting his clothes and wandering over to the private promenade. A peek out of the half-open window (not because he needed some air or anything, it was just...exceptionally hot in that room) showed the darkened sea, looking more like a sheet of black glass than water. There was no moon, no wind, hardly any waves. It was unbelievably peaceful.

Blaine, on the other hand, was anything but. He was probably annoying a few second-class passengers who were trying to sleep below, with all his pacing to and fro, hopping up on his toes and examining the vases of flowers like they were the most fascinating things in the world. But he couldn’t help it. Everything seemed brighter, more vivid, more beautiful now. He could hardly bear to think of how gorgeous the sunrise was going to be.

With a quick glance at the still-closed door of Kurt’s room -- he must be sewing himself into his clothes or something; it was taking so long -- Blaine returned to the piano, sitting and picking up his bit of pencil lead again. Almost self-consciously, he scribbled something at the top of the page, smiling a little to himself. Then he wiped his hands on his pants and reached up for the blue velvet box. Truth be told, he still held a big of a grudge against this big blue rock with the chain that bit people’s innocent necks. But it did look very nice in the light...

“Ug, put that away.” Kurt’s sudden, mildly vexed tone was undercut by the gentleness of his hands on Blaine’s shoulders. During their impromptu piano concert, the first-class boy had scarcely touched the keys, choosing instead to keep his fingers resting lightly on Blaine’s shoulder or forearm or wrist. But it hadn’t particularly mattered, seeing how Kurt could play the other boy as easily as he could’ve played the keys.

Now, with the blue, heart-shaped diamond/sapphire/thingy hanging from one hand, Blaine colored a little, hastily dumping it back in the box and snapping it shut, feeling oddly exposed. Kurt was dressed in a suit of white and lavender and pale red (it wasn’t quite light enough to be considered pink, but it was close) and his hair was combed and he looked every inch the young gentleman again. It was harder to see the shy, dark-eyed boy in a barely-there dressing gown now.

But Blaine caught a good glimpse as Kurt smiled, reaching out to take the box, pressing a light kiss to Blaine’s temple as he did. It was less desirous and more affectionate, but it was enough to make the dark-haired boy smile again. “I’ll put it away. I can keep your songs in the safe too, so they won’t get lost,” he offered, reaching for the Titanic song.

Being somewhat occupied in smiling, Blaine didn’t quite pay attention to what Kurt was doing until it was too late. Turning even redder than before, he made a feeble grab for the paper, cringing a little when he saw Kurt’s eyes land on the newly rewritten title. Both slender eyebrows went up in surprise, then quirked just the slightest bit, as Kurt slowly refolded the paper and set it reverently in Blaine’s notebook, without commentary.

Feeling a little awkward now -- Kurt had been smiling, but it was the sort of smile that people wrote books about, a smile that could mean anything -- Blaine stood and stuck his hands in his pockets, watching his notebook get settled in the safe next to a pile of paper that was definitely not money, because no mere mortal had that much money. “You look nice,” he offered, finally, realizing too late that this was a somewhat indelicate remark to make to someone who was bending over in front of him.

Kurt glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrows up again, looking somewhat pleasantly surprised. “Well, thank yo--” he began, the tips of his ears suspiciously pink. However, just then, there was a rattling sound from the door, causing both boys to freeze.

“Kurt?”

The reaction to the low, deep voice was instantaneous. Kurt didn’t hesitate a moment longer than necessary. Blaine, on the other hand, was too bewildered to feel anything other than flattered that Kurt reached for his hand first. Then he silently moved across the sitting room, so gracefully and fluidly that he scarcely made a noise, slipping through the door and shutting it. Blaine was about to question the prudence of hiding in a bedroom, when he found himself being tugged through yet another door. Apparently first-class quarters were a honeycomb of interconnected rooms and doors that Kurt darted through like he’d done it a million times before.

It wasn’t until they were out in the hallway that Blaine managed to get a word in, starting to lope along next to Kurt, his slightly shorter legs taking two steps for every one of the first-class boy’s long strides. “Kurt, what are we--”

“Shhh,” Kurt replied in a whisper, glancing at a passing couple and hastily dropping Blaine’s hand. “Follow me and do not run.”

“Don’t run?” Blaine repeated incredulously, looking over his shoulder anxiously, waiting for the surly-faced manservant to poke his head out and...open fire or something.

“Don’t run,” Kurt repeated, hissing the words and looking straight ahead. Despite his own warning, he was walking somewhat briskly, hands curled into fists at his side. Fists that, despite his own nervousness about potentially being shot, Blaine kept looking down at, frowning at how white Kurt’s knuckles were, imaging that those perfectly manicured nails were biting into those soft palms, picturing himself uncurling those long fingers and kissing away the sting from the little half-moon shaped marks --

And then, like he’d unwittingly willed it into existence, there was the sound of a door creaking open and Kurt was looking over his shoulder and then he was half-shrieking, half-gasping -- “Run, Blaine!” -- and those fingers were twining with Blaine’s and they were running.

It was a clumsy, awkward, half-loping, half-sprinting sort of run, the two of them caught between panting and hollering, yelling at other passengers to get out of their way, hearing the thudding footsteps of Azimio pursuing them, both their hearts pounding and at some point Blaine looked over and Kurt was laughing.

“Here, here, here!” Their shoes skidded on the smooth marble floor, and the closing door of the elevator cut into Blaine’s side as he flung himself through, sagging against the wall and panting and laughing and wheezing, watching Kurt hastily fumble with the door and yelp at the doorman -- “Down, take us down!” -- and wondering if they’d made it in time and watching Azimio slam a fist against the metal grate and it was too late --

“Ha!” Kurt, brilliant and grinning and bright-eyed, made an obscene gesture in the manservant’s general direction, then wiggled his long fingers in a cheeky sort of wave, because they’d made it, they’d escaped. The doorman was eying the two sideways, watching the first-class young gentleman and the boy from steerage giggle and lean against each other, hands clumsy when they touched, trying to mask affection as simple friendship.

Too soon the elevator ride was over, and Kurt and Blaine stumbled out, panting a little, giggles dying off as they realized they were now deep in the bowels of the ship. Even Blaine, who thought his cabin was somewhere around here, was a bit lost. On the bright side, there weren’t too many other passengers about down here. Nobody to glance over suspiciously when Blaine sidled a little closer, hand curling around Kurt’s again, giving a little squeeze. No-one to frown at the perfectly brilliant look on the upper-class boy’s face.

Nobody, that is, except for Azimio.

“This guy just doesn’t give up,” Blaine panted, seconds later, after several detours through the stark white halls. Kurt was breathless next to him, leaning against the wall and self-consciously smoothing his rumpled clothes, before peeking around the corner to see if the manservant was still following them.

“I think he was some sort of water retrieval spaniel in a previous life,” Kurt groaned, seeing Azimio coming down the hall, shoving open every cabin door and looking in briefly, growing more and more stormy-faced with every second. The first-class boy pulled a much-too-bewitching pout and all but stomped his foot in annoyance. “I’m tired of running!”

Blaine glanced around the corner as well, then swore under his breath when Azimio glanced up and caught sight of him. Grabbing Kurt’s hand, amid many petulant protests, Blaine tugged him around the corner and through yet another door. On the bright side, this door had a lock. On the downside, it was a tiny square room with scarcely enough room for the two boys to stand, it’s only distinguishing feature being a ladder that led straight down into somewhere horribly noisy and full of orange and yellow flickering lights. Like fire.

Kurt had his hands over his ears, and Blaine knew they couldn’t stay here forever, but Azimio was out there -- pounding on the door, in fact -- and the only way out was down. So, reaching out to take Kurt’s hand once again, offering a bright smile, Blaine nodded towards the ladder. “Come on, it’ll be an adventure, Kurt!”

It wasn’t. It was a boiler room. Which wasn’t exactly the same thing.

“‘Ey! What’re you doin’ in ‘ere!?”

The bellow of the foreman broke the spell that had been cast by the sight of many filthy, sweaty men, shoveling coal into the enormous furnaces that belched heat and smoke like some sort of hellish nightmare. This time it was Kurt’s turn to grab Blaine’s hand and run, though the other boy followed, after hollering, “You’re doing a great job! Keep up the good work!”

Apparently all the workers were either too busy or too baffled by the sight of the boys to try and pursue them, because the pair passed unhindered through the narrow rooms, skin prickling from the heat, breathing in the acrid scent of coaldust and sweat and fire. But there was a wildness in their fleeing, almost akin to the way they’d danced the night before, down in the steerage party, spinning and laughing and drowning out all other sounds with the pounding of their hearts.

Regardless of how exciting it was, Blaine and Kurt were equally happy for it to be done, hurtling through a door at the far end of the boiler room and shutting it quickly. They were both panting, sweaty and rumpled. Blaine’s curls were in manic disarray, and there was a large smudge of soot right in the middle of Kurt’s starched white shirt.

But they were still smiling, still holding hands and, for what felt like the first time, completely free to be alone.

Kurt moved first, clearing his throat and pulling his somewhat trembly hand free of Blaine’s sweat-dampened one. He looked around at where they’d ended up; a long, high-ceilinged room full of boxes and crates, tied together with coarse, thick ropes.

“We’re in the cargo hold,” he commented, unnecessarily, reaching out to trace the name written on the side of the nearest box. Karofsky Steel. How ironic. Kurt wiped his hand slowly down his slacks, like just the name was enough to make him dirty.

“Hey, look!” Blaine’s bright, excited voice was just what Kurt needed to stop thinking about certain things and people. When Blaine spoke, all other things seemed a million miles away. Kurt wandered around for a moment, through the maze of boxes, following the sound of Blaine’s voice. It led to almost the exact center of the room, where the dark-haired boy was excitedly running his hands over the glass and metal of --

“A motorcar,” Kurt said, somewhat surprised. He’d heard that the cargo on the Titanic was impressive, but it was one thing to hear about automobiles in the hold and quite another to actually see them.

And it was another entirely to see them with an overexcited Blaine clambering up onto the drivers seat and honking the horn. “Lookit this thing! It probably cost more than my house!” he exclaimed, looking positively delighted and turning the wheel back and forth. There might also have been a few sound effects added, but Kurt was too much of a gentleman to laugh about them.

He did clear his throat, however, standing by the door and looking expectant. Blaine paused, mid-mechanical-screech, and grinned at him. “How come I’ve gotta play doorman?” he asked, even as he was leaning back to open the door, in a very un-doorman-like fashion.

“Because you got to honk the horn,” Kurt replied, serenely, folding his hands behind his back and hopping up the one or two steps. The car was the finest he’d ever seen, with a sliding window in front, so the passenger could talk to the driver, and a long, wide plush seat. Leaning forward and opening the window, Kurt crossed his arms on the sill and rested his chin on them. “So, where are you taking me, driver?” he teased.

“Oh, here and there. I was thinking deepest darkest Asia, with a stopover in Nantucket,” Blaine replied, quite clearly having the time of his life. Both young men had gotten their breath back, and their voices sounded very small and echoey in the enormous room. It felt like they were the only two people in the world.

And that was just how Kurt wanted it. He reached out, hesitantly, running his fingertip down one of Blaine’s suspenders, still not quite used to touching him. “Want to come back here?” he said suddenly, all teasing aside. He was suddenly aware of the tremor in his voice, of the way he bit his lip and drew back a little when Blaine turned. He knew perfectly well what he was suggesting -- they both did -- and he knew what it entailed.

What surprised him was how much he wanted it. He’d never wanted it, not before. But this wasn’t before, this was then and there and this was Blaine’s playful smile slowly changing into something that was equal parts nervousness and hope.

“Yeah. Sure.” Blaine turned carefully, then opted to crawl right through the window, something that made Kurt laugh a little. Then he slid the panel of glass shut, and all of a sudden the big huge room had gone away, and they were sitting, side-by-side on the velvet cushioned seat that suddenly seemed both too small and too big at the same time.

“...have you...ever...” Kurt began, haltingly, biting his lower lip and unsure of whether to look at Blaine’s face or hands or somewhere in between.

A little shrug and a sheepish half-smile. “With women.”

Kurt sighed a little, pulling back, against the wall and crossing his arms. “Well. It’s different,” he said in a flat sort of voice. And it was, and how could he have been so stupid as to assume that it would be any less awkward or uncomfortable, because all the parts were the same as it was with Da -- with someone who he couldn’t believe he was thinking about right then, and this had been a mistake and stupid and he should just leave then, before things got even worse and --

And then. And then Blaine’s arms were around his waist and Blaine’s lips were on his neck and this wasn’t like the giggly, clumsy, fumbling kisses and caresses up in the stateroom. This was the assured, confident, in-control touch of a man, and Kurt wasn’t tentative and awkward like a boy when he reached back and settled his hand at Blaine’s waist and felt the heat of his skin through his thin shirt. This wasn’t anything like Kurt had ever felt or done before.

“I know it’s different,” Blaine was murmuring against Kurt’s neck, hands staying where they were, for the moment, folding over Kurt’s stomach, just holding him close in the way they’d been afraid to anywhere else. “But I think I can figure out what to do.”

Kurt nodded a little, then turned so he could move his other hand up, playing with the buttons of Blaine’s shirt. Then he frowned, slightly, still caught up in the mechanics of things. “There are...supplies, there’s things we need, there’s --” and the thought of it made him twitch and recoil a little, made him think of other times, other places, other people, and he didn’t want to think it, he truly didn’t, and he let Blaine tug him close again, squeezing him so tightly it almost hurt to breathe.

“How about,” Blaine began slowly, probably sensing Kurt’s train of thought. “We just...figure it out together?”

And somehow one or two or five buttons had come undone under Kurt’s hands and the last thing he wanted to do was stop, because there was that ache in his chest that always came when Blaine looked at him like that, and there were certain other aches that were rapidly becoming distracting, but he frowned and shook his head a little. “That isn’t how you’re supposed to do it,” he said, realizing how silly the words sounded even as he said them. But it was true, wasn’t it? There was a certain way that...this was done, and they didn’t have the supplies required.

To his great surprise, Blaine laughed, squeezing him close for a moment, then sliding his hands up Kurt’s back, over his shoulders, resting them on either side of his face. “I don’t think we’re going to be graded on style, Kurt,” he teased, lightly, shivering a little as the first-class boy’s fingers hesitantly trailed down over his bared chest. “I want to make you feel good. And I’m...sort of hoping you want to do the same thing, right?”

Kurt nodded a little, tracing the contours of Blaine’s muscles with a fingertip, not really making eye contact, exactly, because this was a very attention-consuming activity. But Blaine moved his hand, cupping Kurt’s chin and prompting him to look up a bit.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said, gently. “There’s nothing in the world wrong with that. Okay?”

Another moment of hesitation, then Kurt nodded, slowly. Then, deciding that if he was going to commit to this, he was going to do it all the way, he leaned in, hands sliding up to rest on Blaine’s face, kissing him in a slower, sweeter, more lingering way than he had before. It was a kiss that promised things.

“Okay,” he mumbled as he finally pulled away for air, the kiss having turned into something more than just sweet. Taking his nod as permission, Blaine’s hands had gone to slide off the exquisitely tailored jacket, letting it slide to the floor of the car as he fumbled with the far-too-many buttons on Kurt’s shirt. Kurt reached up, meaning to help, because this shirt was a bit tricky, but Blaine shook his head, leaning down and pressing his lips to Kurt’s neck, the hollow of his throat, his collarbone, every inch of snowy white skin that was laid bare.

“I want to,” Blaine murmured, fervently, kissing his way down Kurt’s chest. “I want to, let me?” He paused, panting a little, lips hovering just above Kurt’s stomach, hands resting on his hips, thumbs rubbing in slow circles over the prominent jut of the other boy’s hipbones.

Kurt had somehow ended up sprawled over the seat, one hand braced against the back window the other still lingering in Blaine’s hair, breathing in stuttering, almost-gasps. If Blaine was suggesting what Kurt sort-of-kind-of hoped he was suggesting...

“U-Uh-huh,” he managed to gulp, finally, hand curling against the already-fogged-up window, lower body arching up instinctively into Blaine’s hands. He’d heard about things, from his various male acquaintances, after they’d gotten one too many brandies into them. The idea had seemed foreign to him, so used to taking his mind and thoughts far away during any sort of...intimate activity. To think of receiving, of it feeling good, of getting to lie back and enjoy, rather than lie back and endure.

And the way Blaine was looking at him, was keeping those rich-colored, mellow honey-golden eyes trained on Kurt’s face, even as he finished unbuttoning and unzipping and pulling away all of the layers of rich expensive clothing. He looked like he had that first day, when he’d looked up and seen Kurt standing on the upper deck. Like a man seeing the sun for the first time.

Even the initial pang of self-consciousness at being undressed went away at the look on Blaine’s face. Kurt swallowed hard, licking his lips, the hand curled in Blaine’s hair suddenly moving to slide down his cheek, drawing those eyes back to his. He wasn’t sure what he’d been wanting to say -- something drastic, something life-altering, something he hadn’t said in years, most likely. But lying there underneath Blaine Anderson, he found that just the words weren’t sufficient. So he settled for tracing the shape of Blaine’s parted lips with his fingertip, letting the look on his face be enough.

Fortunately, Blaine seemed to understand. He smiled a little, pressing his lips to Kurt’s fingertip, sweetly, almost innocently. And then everything was heat and wanting, was the two of them panting and whimpering and gasping in the confined space, was Kurt curling his hands in Blaine’s sweat-drenched curls, was Blaine using those soft lips for purposes other than kissing, was Kurt’s leg hooked over Blaine’s shoulder and Kurt’s toes curling against Blaine’s back and Kurt’s hand leaving an imprint on the steamed-up windows as his back arched and his gasps turning to moans turning to BlaineBlaineBlaineohmygodBlaine...

And if there were things said then, when Blaine sat back with his lips full and parted and plush, when Kurt yanked him down, shuddering and pressing forward at the same time, moving against the other boy hungrily, hardly able to imagine how he could still want more, when he slid one hand down between their bodies and grabbed Blaine’s chin with the other, when he swallowed the soft gasping cries and twisted his hand just right -- if somewhere in all of that, between Blaine coming with his lips against Kurt’s and Kurt folding a trembling Blaine in his arms, the moans became promises and the gasps became Iloveyousomuch, then neither boy was going to tell.

“Thank you.” It seemed like a silly thing to say, overpolite and not enough all at once, and Blaine turned a little, hiding his face against Kurt’s bare chest, long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as the most wonderful feeling of calm settled over him. And Kurt, who was lying with his legs tangled with Blaine’s, with his heaving chest pressed against the other boy’s, who was waiting for the familiar feeling of shame and guilt that never came, just smiled a little and brushed a few curls away from Blaine’s face, kissing the spot where they’d rested.

“You’re welcome.”