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

Down in the Karofsky-Sylvester suite, David walked in through the door, fists curled, steps thudding hard enough to be heard two decks below. Trailing in the wake of his fury was a stony-faced-as-always Azimio, who kept his hands folded behind his back, the only remnant of his frantic multi-deck pursuit of the wayward Mr. Hummel-Sylvester (and co.) the permanent furrow between his brows.

“It’s a ship,” Dave was muttering as he looked around the suite. “There are only so many places he can go.” Almost without his conscious consent, he noticed the open lid on the piano, the furniture nudged out of place, the open door to Kurt’s room, the messy sheets on the bed and, lying bold as you please in the middle of the room, the Chinese silk robe that Kurt spent the majority of his evenings in.

Half of these clues had a simple and innocent explanation -- unlike the fogged-up windows of the car in the hold, which were just now being discovered by a couple of Azimio-ordered porters -- but David was in no mood to think the best of Kurt. He picked up the robe, absently rubbing the thin, richly embroidered and very clingy fabric between his fingers.

Then he tossed it down on the couch with a barely contained growl, turning and going towards the safe, almost on instinct. “You’re going to find them,” he announced, perhaps to Azimio, perhaps to himself, perhaps simply to whatever Powers That Be who were listening. A few jerky spins of the dial and he was wrenching the door open, reaching out to touch the stacks of money, the blue jewelry case, the leather-bound notebook. “You’re going to find them and--”

Wait. Leather-bound notebook? Dave frowned, straightening up and snatching the notebook out of the safe, prompting a piece of folded paper to fall out and flutter to the ground. He ignored it for a moment, leafing briskly through the thick, rough pages. “Music,” he muttered, somewhat caught off-guard. Music was never something he’d given much thought to. Music was Kurt’s area, his “passion”, so to speak. David had never really put much stock in it. Was Kurt composing now?

But no, the writing was too blocky, too scrawled and sloppy. Kurt Hummel-Sylvester had been educated in the finest schools Europe had to offer. Even if there was disaster and mayhem all around him, he’d still form his “e”s and “a”s with perfect precision. This wasn’t his work.

His scowl darkening even more, Dave leaned down to pick up the fallen piece of paper, ignoring Azimio’s baffled look. He unfolded it, a bit roughly, as if already anticipating the signature at the bottom, scrawled in the same hand that had composed the pages and pages of music.

Blaine Anderson.

Even though this, the evidence of a shared interest, a passion which bound a boy from the highest class and a boy from the lowest together against all odds, was enough to make Dave’s blood boil and his hands clench on the edges of the paper, he might’ve been able to calm himself. He might’ve been able to hold it together, to dismiss this as a passing fancy, a whim that would go as it had come, on the wind, fleeting and unimportant.

But there, at the top of the page, next to the scribbled out former name of the little song -- Titanic Hymn -- written with such care, obviously as neatly as the third-class boy could make it... Dave could’ve ignored a lot of things, but what Blaine Anderson had renamed the piece was too much --

For Kurt.

It was there, in black and white, staring Dave in the face, mocking all his failed attempts at proving himself or reaching past the walls which surrounded the proud, cold young man who shared his bed. Months and months of trying, of gifts and compliments and petting and praise with no results whatsoever, while Blaine Anderson could break down Kurt’s defenses with two words.

David very nearly tore the paper to pieces right then and there, as if destroying it could also destroy the taunting voices that were nearly audible, telling him that he’d lost, he’d failed, he’d been bested by a man, a boy who was so inferior, so much less than he was, so far below him. But, fortunately for the song, reason prevailed.

Exhaling slowly and replacing the paper in the notebook, which was very slowly and carefully set in the safe, Dave flexed and relaxed his hands a couple times. He was the bigger man here. The better one. He always got his way.

And one way or another, Blaine Anderson was going to pay.

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

Midnight approached. The inner workings of the greatest ship on earth continued in expected, usual, routine ways.

Down in the boiler room, men sweated and bellowed and shoveled coal into blazing furnaces.

A late dinner was brought down to an officer in a crisp navy blue suit. He ate his carrots while idly watching the enormous, well-oiled pistons of the ship move in hypnotic, rythmic circles. spinning the propellers, driving the Titanic deeper into the night.

Up by the wheel, Captain Figgins sipped a cup of tea with lemon, watching the dark, still, glassy sea. He handed the cup to a steward and, turning over the night watch to his second-in-command, retired to bed.

The two lookouts on duty shoved each other playfully, breath coming out in visible puffs of white, grinning and joking and only half-watching the water.

And, to the mild annoyance of the wireless operator, another iceberg warning was received, transcribed, laid aside and forgotten.

11:35.

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

Somewhere between David Karofsky’s vows for revenge and the dozing-off lookouts, two men, two boys, two people who still panted for breath like they couldn’t remember how, who still moved their hands with a clumsy sort of need, grabbing and tugging and holding and touching, stumbled out of a door and into the icy air on the front deck.

In all the time he’d known him -- had it been a day or a year? It had been somewhere between forever and not long enough -- Blaine had never heard Kurt laugh like this. It was gasping and loud and thoroughly undignified, and it was accompanied by Kurt’s arms flung around Blaine’s neck and therefore it was perfect.

“Shhhh,” Blaine cautioned, in between his own grinning, in between running his fingers through Kurt‘s hair, loving the way he could ruffle it into peaks and swoops and perfectly-tuggable tufts and Kurt wouldn‘t stop him. “Shhh, it’s late. We’re going to wake up the whole ship.”

“Let it wake up,” Kurt mumbled, aiming for Blaine’s mouth and ending up half-nuzzling, half just bumping into his neck. “Let everyone hear. Let the whole world hear.”

Blaine almost asked “hear what?”, almost prompted the words he was sure were coming, sooner or later, the words he’d said in a hundred different inaudible ways since the moment they’d met. But Kurt was straightening, glancing around furtively with the air of someone used to being watched. Then he curled both hands into Blaine’s shirt and tugged him back, under the stairs that led to the upper deck, where they were safely hidden.

This new bout of assertiveness was nice, Blaine decided as Kurt pushed him up against the wall, not quite roughly, but not exactly gently either. Odd, but nice. Sort of like how Kurt’s cheeks, normally so pale and hollow, were flushed darkly from the cold air and the running and from things Blaine still wasn’t sure had actually happened. Nice like how Kurt’s lips were pinker and fuller than they’d ever been, and how he kept nibbling and biting at them, drawing the lower one into his mouth and sucking on it, and even if he was the one pressed against the wall, Blaine was the one who leaned forward and took Kurt’s face in his hands and claimed that perfect mouth as his again.

“Take me with you.” This was mumbled between increasingly more fervent and breath-stealing kisses, and Blaine almost didn’t hear it. But Kurt reached up, nudging him away gently, enough so he could speak clearly. Blaine pouted for a moment, consoling himself by resting his forehead against Kurt’s, wrapping his arms around his waist.

A soft smile, then again, louder -- “Take me with you, Blaine.”

“Okay,” Blaine murmured, eyes closed, lost in how Kurt felt pulled against his body, the way his hair and skin smelled. “Where to?”

“I’m being serious.” There was a little chuckle, mostly because of Blaine’s wounded-puppy dog face when Kurt pulled away. It vanished quickly, though, because the conviction and the pride in those bright eyes was arresting. Kurt was standing taller than he had in months, shoulders back, head held high. “When this ship docks, I’m getting off with you. And I’m going with you, wherever you decide to go. Santa Monica, New England, the farthest reaches of deepest darkest wherever. I’m going with you, Blaine.”

It was a daring, a defiant, a radical statement. It was crazy and impossible and it would never work and it was the most brilliant idea ever. Blaine said as much, in between pressing his lips to every inch of Kurt’s skin that his mouth could get to. “Are you sure?” he breathed against the smooth, strong line of Kurt’s jaw, his mind churning against his will, with stories he’d heard, with all the awful things that could happen if someone realized what they were, if someone found out.

Kurt never hesitated. His hands were shaky as they curled into Blaine’s shirt, and his lips were trembling when he pressed them to Blaine’s again. But though there was excitement and anxiety and nervousness and bliss in the way he touched and kissed and smiled, the one thing that wasn’t present was fear. He’d spent too much of his life being afraid of things, of taking risks, of the future.

Now, though, with the riskiest thing he’d ever done smiling in his arms, Kurt wasn’t the least bit afraid.

“I’m positive.”

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

At 11:39 on April 14th, 1912, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester and Blaine Anderson pulled away from one another, reluctantly, and walked to stand by the railing. There was nothing suggestive in how they stood, side-by-side, looking up at the stars and out at the sea. There was nothing suspicious in the way they talked, softly, about this and that and nothing, aware of the constantly watching eyes, already practicing the care they would have to take every moment of every day.

And the only way someone would’ve seen the exchanged glances, the way their hands moved closer on the railing, fingertips and palms brushing together accidentally-on-purpose, would be if they were looking for it.

At 11:39 on April 14th, 1912, the world might have cared, might have thrown a fit, might have accused and pointed fingers and exacted punishment and retribution against two lost, lonely, desperately in love boys.

But at 11:40 on April 14th, 1912, none of that mattered anymore.

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

“What the he--”

Ignorant of the private drama that would be painstakingly recorded in the history books, how the look-outs saw the looming dark shape too late, how they rang down to the second-in-command on duty, how commands and curses and panic reigned for a few precious seconds -- pick up you bastards, hard to port, hard over, engage the reversing engines, turn, turn damn you, TURN -- Blaine’s only thought when the steel hull of the unsinkable ship collided with the iceberg was to get Kurt out of the way.

The deck was shaking and metal was hitting ice with shrieking and scraping sounds and several man-sized chunks of the iceberg rained down and if Kurt gave a shriek of his own and clung onto Blaine in a strictly less-than-platonic way, well, nobody was paying attention. It was nearly midnight, it was bitterly cold outside and the only people out on deck were all occupied with the same task.

With a mixture of wonder, fear and reverence, the handful of passengers (blissfully ignorant of how the hull of the ship was shredding like paper, how hundreds of thousands of seawater was pouring in, how the car in a room where two tentative and fumbling boys had made love less than an hour before was already underwater) stared up at the iceberg. It was rough and uneven, all harsh angles and white-blue-black colors, primal and wild next to the streamlined man-made ship. In spite of himself, Blaine curled his arms a little tighter around Kurt, feeling a curl of dread he didn’t quite understand yet. There was something so threatening about the block of ice, the way it towered over the floating city that thousands of people trusted in. Something that could make even the bravest man feel small.

“What was that?” Kurt’s voice was soft and halting again, his shoulders bowed, head down. He was feeling some of the same uneasiness, perhaps carried in the air from the officers and the stewards who already knew some of the impending disaster.

“I guess we hit it.” Blaine winced a little, feeling Kurt shiver a bit and press a little closer. That wasn’t helpful at all. So, exhaling shortly and forcing his hands to uncurl from around Kurt, he sidestepped a few of the ice chunks and leaned over the railing again. The iceberg was already almost invisible in the still, inky-black night, but Blaine could see the scrape marks along the hull of the ship, if he looked hard.

But he didn’t look hard. He nodded slightly, stepping back and reaching instinctively for Kurt, offering a reassuring smile. He kept the smile, he nodded towards the door into the warmer, brighter halls and rooms and he lied. “It looks fine to me. Let’s get you inside. You’re freezing.”

In light of what the next few hours would hold, Blaine Anderson can most definitely be forgiven for his willful ignorance.