But the fact was that the two men who felt most responsible, who could almost hear the faces and words carving themselves into once-illustrious careers -- Schuester with his curls askew and his finger jabbing angrily at the blueprints, at the watertight bulkheads that only went up to E deck (not enough, damn you, don’t you understand, it’s not high enough?) and Figgins, with his captain’s hat dangling loosely from one hand (because what good was it, this symbol of his responsibility, what good was it except to make him feel even more powerless?) -- would be dead by the end of the night.

An hour. Two, at most.

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

At that moment, though, the water rushing by the gallon through the rent iron hull, streaming into the third-class cabins, drawing squawking Italian curses from a mussy-haired Pavarotti as Rory Flannagan, all business, dragged him from his deep sleep with a “Move your arse, Pav, we’ve gotta get out of here” -- none of that mattered much to the quiet, stony-faced pair who made their way down the hall, hand-in-hand.

“Just keep holding my hand,” Kurt muttered under his breath, lifting his chin a little more as a passing steward tossed a confused glance at the two young men.

His giddy mood of ten minutes before quite subdued, Blaine nodded, squaring his shoulders and squeezing Kurt’s hand a little. Despite the looks they were getting, the feeling and sight of his fingers entwined with the first-class boy’s was still as natural and right-feeling as ever. It gave him courage, how Kurt wasn’t afraid to be seen with him.

He only hoped that courage didn’t quail too much as soon as it was faced with David Karofsky.

And, judging by the ever-attentive Azimio who was lingering by the door of the suite, this confrontation would happen sooner than later. The stony-faced manservant arched both eyebrows at Kurt and Blaine’s joined hands, but he didn’t say anything other than “We’ve been looking for you, sir,” as he fell into step beside Blaine. The dark-haired young man leaned away as much as he could, nose wrinkling at the scent of expensive cologne, keeping his eyes focused on Kurt’s pale, proud face as they pushed open the door.

“This is an outrage!” Something instinctively knotted up in Blaine’s chest at Karofsky’s indignant exclamation, all too used to having accusations levied at him after such a phrase. But for once it didn’t seem to be aimed at him, rather at a rather anxious-looked master-at-arms. Karofsky was pacing back and forth, rage etched in every line of his face, every movement of his tensed body. “I demand that this matter be attended to, immediately!” He bellowed, gesturing wildly at the master-at-arms.

Kurt had gone even more rigid as soon as they’d entered the room, but now he licked his lips nervously and cleared his throat. Standing tall at his side, Blaine had to fight the urge to step between the young man and the possessive look Karofsky cast towards him. “David, Sue,” Kurt began, glancing towards Ms. Sylvester, who was seated on the couch with a large glass of brandy and seemed to be unperturbed by her escort’s fury. “Something has happened. Something serious.”

“It certainly has.” The look of possession only intensified as Karofsky stepped forward, glaring down momentarily at where Blaine’s hand curled tightly around Kurt’s. “First my precious ward’s beloved disappears, and then my belongings start to. I hate to question your judgment, Mr. Hummel, but I’m afraid your choice of companions is less than prudent.”

Completely thrown off, Kurt unconsciously loosened his grip on Blaine’s hand, brow furrowing as he looked up at Karofsky. “What are you talking abo--” he began, not seeing the stewards stepping forward.

Dave ignored him, nodding at Blaine and reaching out to grasp Kurt’s arm at the elbow. “Search him,” he commanded, coolly, effectively separating the two young men, as Blaine was unexpectedly grabbed from behind.

“What the hell?!” Blaine all but yelped, arms held firmly as the stewards went through his pockets in a quick, businesslike manner. Kurt looked absolutely horrified, moving to wrench his arm out of Karofsky’s grip, but before he could, one of the stewards gave a triumphant “hmph” and lifted up --

“Brittany’s necklace.” The words were soft, faint almost, matching the way all the color drained from Kurt’s face at the sight of the bright blue gem, dangling from it’s jeweled chain. Forgetting about pulling free, he turned a confused, bewildered look on Blaine. And he should’ve known, should’ve stood up for him then and there, because there was no mistaking the stunned look in Blaine’s eyes. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have...

“I-I didn’t take it,” Blaine protested, voice trailing off at the way Kurt was looking at him. Even that instant, that moment of suspicion was enough to freeze the words in his throat. If Kurt wouldn’t believe him, it was no use pleading his case to anyone else.

So Blaine was silent as the cuffs were produced from the master-at-arms’ pocket and fixed on his wrists, which he held out without a word. What use would it be to explain, to say that he would never do something like this, never commit this kind of betrayal. Not to Kurt. The way he felt would be easily evident, would bleed through in his every word.

Hell, they might lock him up anyway, just for loving as much as he did.

Besides, Kurt was just standing there, staring at him, lost and confused and pale with his clothes mussed and his eyes wide and that mountain of a man standing beside him. He was waiting for an explanation, for Blaine to tell the truth, to say the words that were impossible. Because to give an alibi was to incriminate them both.

This was all immediately clear to Blaine, but for a moment Kurt was actually about to protest, to step forward and declare Blaine’s innocence himself. But David’s hand was firm on his arm, and his voice was dark in his ear -- “What are you going to tell them? That he couldn’t have taken it because he was too busy committing all manner of abomination with you? They’ll throw you both off this damn ship. Don’t think they won’t.”

And that made sense, damn it all. This was the way of the world. Standing up for himself, for Blaine, for this fragile and wonderfully new something that they had wasn’t worth the repercussions. After all, Blaine had clearly already made his choice. He was staying quiet. He was taking the blame for theft, so he wouldn’t have to take the blame for a much worse sin.

So Kurt did the same. He swallowed hard and looked down at his feet, rather than at Blaine’s face as he was led away under the watchful eye of Azimio, down to the master-at-arm’s office, in the deepest part of the ship. As good as a world away, just as it was supposed to be. The upper deck where he’d promised to stay with Blaine seemed years ago, the car where Blaine had touched him, kissed him a lifetime away.

He’d been stupid to think anything could change.

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

In the midst of a crisis, some prejudices still remain. Down in steerage, doors were flung open, lights switched on without warning, without any heed given to the exclamations in every language. Brief explanations -- “life vests on” -- were tossed along with the aforementioned vests to the damp floor, ignoring the barriers of tongue and half-asleep ears. Mother’s cradled their whimpering, confused children close and father’s hopped off their bunks and felt the icy seawater up to their ankles. Along the hall, a tow-headed Italian and a violently cussing Irishman tugged on coats and shoes, both wondering where their American friend had disappeared to.

On the other hand, matters in first-class were handled very differently.

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

They had taken Blaine away a mere two and a half minutes ago. Kurt knew this, because the small clock sitting on the end table was a safe enough thing to focus his gaze on, the steady ticktickticking a welcoming distraction from the numbness that was already eating him alive. It was over. Blaine was gone.

David had politely discharged the remaining stewards, handing a five-pound note to each and waving them away, then had politely escorted Sue back to her room, promising to have a bottle of brandy sent up as soon as possible. Now he stood, hair askew, tie undone, looming above Kurt, as he was wont to do.

“Stand up.” It was a command, like one you’d give to a dog. But Kurt stood, hardly feeling his feet as he did it. Even the iron-hard grip on his arm, once so familiar and commonplace, barely registered. In fact, not even the vague, but firm impression that they were all in danger, that there was something horribly wrong about a ship colliding with an iceberg, could pierce through the numbness that had settled in.

Dave was talking again, something about his “sincere hopes that you’ve finished with this temporary insanity”, in between mild threats about “institutions” and “even if it tarnishes the family name, by god I’m going to make sure nothing like this ever happens again”. Kurt just kept his eyes on the clock, watching it tick away the seconds, watching it move slowly past twelve, past midnight. Time, at least, was not affected by the slow crumbling of his world.

More talking, more ranting, the grip getting tighter and tighter on his upper arm -- and then, somewhat unexpectedly, the crack of David’s broad palm against his cheek, accompanied with a snarled, “Will you look at me when I’m talking to you?!”

That, at least, startled Kurt enough to look up, eyes wide with shock. He was either shocked by the blow or shocked that he could feel it at all. In any case, he stood, staring at Karofsky, face throbbing dully, the mark hot in comparison to his still-chilled skin.

To his credit, David looked a little surprised at himself, his grip loosening on Kurt’s arm, the hand that had delivered the blow hanging loosely at his side. Things rarely escalated to this point between them. It was just the circumstances, the late hour, the stress of being cooped up on a ship with nothing but ocean, ocean, ocean, no matter where he looked.

The steward barging in uninvited didn’t help either. Dave jumped a little, letting go of Kurt like the contact burned and jamming his hands into his pockets. “Excuse me, I don’t recall asking for--” he began, brow furrowing.

“Terribly sorry, sir, but I’ve been told to ask you to dress and put your lifebelts on.” There was a briskness about the steward’s voice and movements, unlike the usual calm superiority. This wasn’t a routine, casual sort of interruption. Despite the sting of his cheek and the buzzing numbness, Kurt found himself taking notice. Something wasn’t right.

Dave was less impressed. “I said we don’t need anything, thank you,” he snapped, raking his fingers backwards through his hair and giving the pristine white lifebelts a disdainful look as the steward set them on the table. “Would you kindly--”

“I’m sorry,” the steward repeating, cutting Karofsky off mid-sentence. “But it’s captain’s orders that everyone put on their belts and report to the grand salon. Dress warmly, please, it’s terribly cold outside.” Dave threw up his arms in defeat. Then, hearing Sue’s indignant voice from the adjoining room, he muttered something dark and profane and went to rescue whatever poor steward she was currently tearing into.

Kurt was left alone, one icy hand coming up to rub at his cheek, the feel of it making him flinch a little, tears springing to his eyes at the burn. The steward noticed, offering a sympathetic smile that didn’t reach the rest of his face. “Not to worry, young sir,” he said briskly, patting Kurt’s shoulder. “I’m certain it’s just a safety precaution.”

It was only after he was left alone that Kurt realized the man’s hand had been shaking.

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

Though the temptation was to become numb, to retreat inside his head and dwell in whatever feeling this was -- heartbreak, most likely -- rather than stay alert and move forward, Blaine was well-aware he couldn’t afford it. He’d spent his entire life learning to adapt, to cope, to survive. And now, back down on E deck, wrists chafing under the iron cuffs, glancing out the porthole and seeing the sea lapping too close, too high, the water was much too high, he’d need to focus on survival more than ever. He’d have to put all thoughts of Kurt Hummel-Sylvester out of his mind, because there was a very good chance that the ship he’d gambled for was doomed.

Of course, it was a little hard to think about escaping the ship when he couldn’t even leave the room. Perhaps the master-at-arms wasn’t aware of the iceberg-ship collision, perhaps he didn’t think much of it -- or perhaps he just didn’t care about a third-class troublemaker’s fate. But whatever the reason, he appeared to have no qualms whatsoever about handcuffing Blaine’s wrists to a pipe in his office and leaving him there alone.

Well. Almost alone.

Pressing his lips together, Blaine tried to ignore Azimio’s silent, smirking presence, his mind whirling as he thought of escape plans. Sneaking on a lifeboat, making a raft of the genuine cherry wood tables that were three to a suite in first class...taming a dolphin and riding it to shore. Something.

The only trouble was that he kept running up against two obstacles: the first was, naturally, the fact that he was cuffed to a pole, with the key to the cuffs hidden somewhere in the office. And the second, though he tried his hardest to keep his mind from straying there, was Kurt. Even if he did escape, be it by boat, raft or sea creature, it wouldn’t mean anything if Kurt didn’t make it too.

He’s a first-class passenger, Blaine reasoned with himself, tugging at the cuffs a little and glancing over at Azimio to see if he noticed. He did. Damn it. They’ll let him onto one of the first boats. He’s probably already gone.

An hour ago, Blaine would’ve questioned if Kurt would go, if he’d leave the ship (leave Blaine) like that. Now he was starting to think it was better that things had...well, had ended like they had. This way, no matter what, Kurt would be safe.

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

“Can I get a damn straight answer from someone?”

The polite, subdued chattering and the sweet sound of the string quartet was easily drowned out by Ms. Molly Shannon’s Beiste’s booming voice. For the first time since the collision Kurt felt himself smile.

It didn’t last long, though, seeing as he was flanked by a sleep-deprived (and therefore even meaner than usual) Sue and a Dave who was essentially six feet of barely contained fury. Exhaling shakily, Kurt folded his arms even tighter around himself, fingers curling into the soft cream-colored felt of his designer coat. It was one of his favorite items of clothing, actually, and he loved nearly everything about it -- the curlicues of chocolate-colored braid, the wide collar and thickly embroidered sleeves, the way it hugged him at the waist, the flared out around his knees.

Yet another smile curled the corner of Kurt’s mouth as he fingered a swirl of the embroidered braid. Was this what going insane felt like? Admiring his fashion choices while the Unsinkable Ship slowly disappeared into the Atlantic?

Because that was what was happening, right? That was why the elite and high society were gathered here, closest to the lifeboats, while the second and third classes were swallowed up with the rats and the cargo. The ship was sinking. Wasn’t it?

Suddenly unable to bear it another moment longer, Kurt turned away from Sue’s muttered litany of curses, eyes scanning the crowd desperately. On the entire ship, there was only one person whose word he’d trust. The stewards would lie to him, the other passengers would think he was insane, but he’d been there, he’d seen the towering block of ice, he’d heard the rending of metal and felt the decks shudder violently. He had to hear the words, had to know for sure.

Finally Kurt caught sight of the tousled brown curls, the face that was apparently made for smiles and optimism. William Schuester wasn’t smiling now, though. He moved through the crowd of first-class passengers in a daze, giving a blank, bewildered sort of stare to the band, the stewards carrying brandy, the women with fur coats pulled on over their life belts. Like a man in a dream, he drifted towards the stairs, not hearing Kurt calling his name, softly at first, then a bit louder, then --

“Mr. Schuester!” Finally close enough, Kurt reached out and grabbed William’s arm, prompting him to turn and look at him, through him. Clearing his throat and ignoring Dave’s suspicious look, Kurt stepped up so he was eye level with the ship’s designer, hand cold and shaky on his arm. “Mr. Schuester, I need to ask you something --”

“Kurt...ah, Mr. Hummel. Hummel-Sylvester.” The words were coming slowly, stilted. Gone was the self-assured man who had joked about how few lifeboats there were, and how unnecessary they were anyway, on an unsinkable ship. This Schuester smiled, vaguely, reaching to pat Kurt’s hand. “Best ask one of the stewards if you need something. It’s like a party here, drinks and entertainment...perhaps someone will get up on the piano and recite a poem. Really finish off the evening.”

He laughed a little, turning to go. Kurt swallowed hard, tightening his grip and hissing in a low voice, “I was there. I saw it hit. I saw the iceberg. I know, Mr. Schuester.” The designer stopped cold, turning back to Kurt, giving him a look that was half hopelessness, half pleading. Unsure of why, Kurt just leaned in closer and said, softer, not wanting to incite panic, “I just...I need to--”

“Get to a boat.” This was said in a firm, terrible voice. Somehow even the vague haziness of a moment before was preferable to the finality of Scuester’s voice now as he leveled his gaze at Kurt. “You need to get to a boat. Before they’re all gone. We have an hour. Perhaps less. The lowest decks are already underwater.”

Kurt recoiled in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that he’d been almost certain, in spite of how he’d seen it happen. Somehow hearing it, remembering what Schuester had said -- about half as many spaces on the boats as people -- realizing how quickly an hour could pass drove it home.

Mr. Schuester was saying something else -- “Please, don’t tell too many. I don’t want to cause a riot” -- and was moving off, back into a daze, off to think or regret or make peace with his god. Kurt hardly noticed, because along with the knowledge that the Titanic was going to sink (was, indeed, already sinking) came yet another realization. The lowest decks. The master-at-arms’ cabin.

Oh god, Blaine.