By that time, as several people already knew, the world’s greatest nautical feat of engineering would’ve been resting on the ocean floor, it’s cargo and passengers littered here and there, debris in the sea, for three hours at least.

Those who possessed this knowledge handled it differently. Some prayed. Some denied. A few hid themselves and wept. Captain Figgins walked as if in a daze, nodding vaguely to any questions he was asked -- women and children first, right sir? Where are the first class lifeboats? Where should I go? What should I do? -- without really hearing them. William Schuester retired to the grand dining room and stood with a brandy in his hand and his plans abandoned below deck, because he didn’t need to see them to know that he’d failed.

And Kurt? Kurt followed after David and Sue in his own sort of fog, one foot in front of the other, arms crossed over himself like he was already lost in the bitterly cold waves, feeling how the deck was not quite level, how the bow was significantly lower than the stern, how the water lapped dangerously close to the railing where he’d flown in (mustn’t say the name, mustn’t think it, mustn’t let himself thaw and hurt anymore) someone’s arms mere hours before.

Kurt followed and stood with the other first-class passengers and watched the tension rise and mount like a crouching animal, hidden behind the facade of procedure and confidently assured sailors and the melodic strains of Wedding Dance from the band. And his only thought as they stood there was they must be cold, poor souls. I hope the cello doesn’t ice over.

----------------------------------------------------------

There was some sort of mistake. There were women and children down here. Pavarotti wasn’t a sea-faring fellow -- until he’d met up with Blaine, he hadn’t even left his tiny Italian town -- but he knew that the rules were “women and children first”, in case of an emergency on the sea. But there they stood, wide eyes in silent, pale, pinched faces, cradled in mother’s arms or hidden behind voluminous homespun shirts or standing in the protective embraces of husbands, fathers, brothers, sweethearts. Standing and waiting.

Pav exhaled shortly, wondering if he should try and find the pretty golden-haired girl he’d danced with that night at the party, in a room that was probably even now slowly filling up with water. Charity, was her name. Charity or Chastity or something. But he was packed in, watching Rory elbow his way to the front. The Irishman was wearing one of the lifejackets that a harried steward had been handing out earlier. Pavarotti wasn’t, a fact that hadn’t made him nervous until now.

He suddenly wished he knew where Blaine was.

---------------------------------------------------------

This isn’t good. Blaine frowned a little, eyebrows pulling together and almost meeting in the little furrow above his nose. When he’d been brought down, the crests of the waves had just lapped at the bottom of the porthole. Now the view through the little circular window was halfway underwater. Even if Blaine hadn’t been there, hadn’t witnessed the collision, he’d know for sure now that the ship was sinking.

And he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Azimio still sat at the desk, rolling a bullet slowly between his thumb and forefinger, needlessly guarding his thoroughly docile prisoner. But his eyes kept straying to the porthole, and, though his face never betrayed his thoughts, his entire demeanor became more and more tense.

Finally he stood, quick enough to make Blaine startle a little, the cuffs jangling against the metal pipe. Azimio smiled, loading his gun without having to look at it, never breaking eye contact.

“You know what? I think this ship is sinking,” he remarked, softly, both eyebrows arched. “And at least one of us is a dead man walking.” He moved closer, holding the loaded gun high, drawing Blaine’s gaze towards it. Surely he wouldn’t. What would be the point of shooting a man doomed to drown, chained to a pipe? A waste of a bullet.

Apparently this opinion was shared, for Azimio suddenly drove his free hand, curled into a fist, hard into Blaine’s stomach, doubling him over and drawing a pained gasp. “But it’s not me,” Azimio hissed, and for just a moment fear and rage were the same raw emotion, evident in his voice and in how he moved towards the door.

But he paused, looking at the wheezing Blaine and almost smiling. “Actually...it isn’t you either. You can’t exactly walk anywhere, can you?” Then, with a mocking salute and a, “Farewell, Mr. Anderson”, he was gone.

Blaine waited until the porthole was completely underwater to start panicking.

---------------------------------------------------------

The lack of panic was astonishing to Kurt. Not in himself, of course -- he was beyond feeling that -- but in everyone else. Here they stood in the middle of the night, on a clearly sinking ship, and they were waiting as calmly and patiently as if queued up for the opera.

He supposed he couldn’t blame the children for it. This must be exciting to them. They were up late with Mummy and Daddy, standing all bundled up in their best warmest clothes, listening to sweet music and watching the bright light of the distress flares like they were at a parade. But the parents, the women and men, had to know something was wrong.

Yet here they were, discussing the most trivial things. A woman just to his left was asking if the life boats would be seated according to class, and a gentleman at the next lifeboat was climbing into it, bold as you please, despite the monotonous droning of the stewards, women and children first, if you please, women and children first.

“Any room for a gentleman there?” David was asking, drawing Kurt’s attention away from the flares (such bright colors, like fireworks, like Fourth of July parades when he was a child in the States). The steward he’d asked looked hesitant, eyes traveling up, up, up Karofsky’s over-six-foot frame. He mumbled something about “women and children only, sir”, as if half-expecting to be punched.

But Dave simply smiled, hand snaking out to grasp Kurt’s elbow, steering him and Sue forward. “He’s sixteen,” he offered, when the steward hesitated once more. It wasn’t too outlandish a lie -- Kurt was only just growing into himself, long legs no longer seeming too lanky and out of place with an innocent babyishly round face -- but it stung how easily it was accepted. Even if he had looked his age, the steward probably would’ve let him on, delicate, fragile hothouse flower that he was. The idea that he was so clearly not man enough to stay behind, to give up his seat to a lady or a child was enough to break through the numbness.

Kurt pulled his arm away, opening his mouth to protest, to say he could stay and...and do something, do anything. But Sue interrupted, sliding into her seat next to Beiste and drawling, “Get your rear in gear, Porcelain. If we’ve been dragged out of bed, we might as well go along with this asinine bull--” A pointed elbow to the ribs from Ms. Beiste and Sue grimaced, crossing her arms and finished, “--hooey.”

“Sound advice, I should say,” David said, nudging Kurt forward again. Ms. Beiste smiled, holding out her hand and coaxing him forward, like a reluctant child being sent back to bed, because he just wasn’t able to handle the grown-up talk.

But Kurt was still staring at Sue, hands curling and uncurling into fists, face stark white. And for once she seemed to notice, seemed to actually look at him, instead of over or past or through. “Half of the people on this ship are going to die tonight, Sue,” Kurt said in a very soft, very steely voice. “There aren’t enough boats. You know that. We both know that.”

Sue sat up a little straighter, seeing Kurt move away before he actually did. Her hands twitched, like she was going to reach out, drag him back, put him under her control, under her protection, whichever one it was. It was almost humorous that even now he wasn’t sure whether he was something precious or just a possession to her.

It seemed he would never know. For, with a little smile and a nod -- all the farewell she deserved from him -- he said, “Goodbye, Sue,” and turned to disappear into the crowd.

She didn’t call after him.

----------------------------------------------------------

There had to be someone within earshot. The ship was huge, yes, but Blaine wasn’t at the lowest deck. There had to be some refugees, some third-class passengers lost in the endless maze of white halls and doors, someone who could hear him hollering and clanging the metal of his cuffs against the pipe. It didn’t matter if it was the master-at-arms -- better to be released and take his chances against the sea than to drown powerless to escape.

Because whoever found him would surely set him free. They had to. Nobody was that merciless.

“Come on, come on,” Blaine muttered, straining against the handcuffs, feeling his skin chafe and rub raw, seeing the paint on the pipe flake off in a similar fashion. But it was hopeless, pointless, he was going to die down here, drowned like a rat, handcuffed and useless, he’d never make it out, he’d never see the sky, the stars, (never see Kurt) ever again --

No. Focus. Another deep breath of air and Blaine yelled out again -- “Can anyone hear me?! Help!”

He had to keep trying; he couldn’t give up yet. Someone would come.

Someone.

----------------------------------------------------------

Kurt didn’t make it five steps before David was after him, hand closing around his upper arm, voice hissing in his ear -- “What the hell are you doing, you little idiot, the ship is sinking and I’m trying to save your goddamn lif--”

Taking advantage of the fact that he’d never done anything this defiant before, Kurt abruptly twisted his arm free and kept walking. Dave’s threats no longer registered as anything more than the inane buzzing of some persistent insect, easily swatted away. After all, he had more important things to think about.

Unfortunately, most insects aren’t quite as muscular as David Karofsky. His next attempt to grab Kurt’s attention had the smaller man spun around and all but lifted off his feet, face inches away from Dave’s. “Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m talking to you!”

“Let go, David,” Kurt said, calmly, chin lifted, shoulders squared. He was on an enormous hunk of iron that was steadily disappearing into the sea, and the man he loved was drowned or drowning. Dave’s sputtering couldn’t do anything to him now.

Not that this new revelation would stop him. Leaning in even closer, eyes wild, face sweaty and contorted in a sneer and how on earth did Kurt put up with him for so long, Dave growled, “You are not going to go play hero. This is not a game, you stupid child. This is life or death and I don’t give a damn about any women or children on this ship, be they third-class garbage or first-class snobs. You’re getting on that lifeboat. I’m getting on one too, even if I have to bribe, lie or murder my way onto one. Things are going to go back to the way they were, damn it all. Do you understand me?”

Quiet and calm, head still held high, Kurt was honestly stunned that he’d never seen how many cracks were in David’s tough-guy facade, how easily the whole masquerade could fall away. He honestly believed that by yelling loud enough, he could alter the course of this tragedy in the making. But Kurt knew better. Every soul on board was on a crash course to disaster, and it was high time to learn what really mattered.

So, freeing himself once again, Kurt stepped back and offered the faintest and saddest of smiles. “I feel sorry for you, Dave,” he said, almost gently.

Stunned, Karofsky didn’t reach for him again, didn’t do anything but stare as Kurt turned and started walking briskly back inside. Then, as if in a last-ditch effort, heedless of anyone listening, he called out -- “That’s it, then? Off to be a...a penniless guttertrash’s whore?”

By this point, Kurt can be forgiven for stopping dead in his tracks, for turning and letting the gentle smile of understanding give way to the cold sneer of hatred.

“I’d rather be his whore than yours.”

---------------------------------------------------------

E Deck at this point was all but deserted. Those who’d been unfortunate enough to get cabins in the lowest part of the ship were either trapped in the mobs that strained against still-closed doors, guarded by panicky stewards -- or they were already drowned.

Or they were Blaine. Blaine, his wrists red and aching. Blaine, his shoes and socks soaking wet from the crystal-clear, icy-cold water that seeped from under the walls and through the cracks and made it’s steady way into the room. Blaine, cussing and cursing and nearly tearful, straining at the cuffs and yelling until his throat ached and his voice gave out.

Blaine, very nearly out of hope.

----------------------------------------------------------

“Mr. Schuester!” Kurt stumbled past a chambermaid and ducked to avoid being hit in the face with a lady’s enormous hat, then clutched onto the rumpled sleeve of the ship’s designer for the second time that night. However, whereas he’d been pale and numbed the first time around, Kurt was red-faced, panting and determined.

“Mr. Schuester, where does the master-at-arms take people who are under arrest?” he demanded, breathlessly, fingers digging into the bewildered man’s arm like he was going to run away.

“Kurt...” Schuester managed, not quite able to muster the manners required for last names. “Kurt, what are you doing? I told you, get into a boat as soon as--”

With an impatient shake of his head, Kurt leaned in, eyes narrowed with the same intensity he’d had defying Karofsky up on the deck. “I am not a child, Mr. Schuester. Now, you either tell me where on this godforsaken ship I can find Blaine, or I’ll move on to the next unhelpful gentleman in an ill-fitting and tacky suit jacket and ask him. And then the next and the next and the next. But I’ll tell you right now, if you make me run around questioning every single dimwit with questionable fashion taste, the chances of my getting on a lifeboat at all will severely decrease. So tell me.”

Blinking rapidly and mouthing the unfamiliar name -- Blaine? Blaine who? -- Schuester looked around helplessly. Then he relented, ducking his head and saying in an undertone, “You need to take the elevator to the lowest deck, E. Take a left, then a right, then you’ll come to the crew’s quarter’s. Follow that down until you reach a long corridor...”

----------------------------------------------------------

“...long corridor, take a right, take another right, look for the fifth cabin. E deck, left, right, crew’s quarters...” Kurt mumbled the words to himself as he wove his way through the crowd standing around in the grand salon, lingering on the staircase, crowded by the elevator. He tried not to push and shove too much, wanting to spare the other passengers the urgency he was feeling even now. He’d seen the bow of the ship lowering down, down, down into the ocean. He’d felt the icy air, and he shuddered to imagine how cold the water could be.

And, of course, there was the simple matter of the probably love of his life, trapped somewhere in the depths of the ship.

However, being polite and not elbowing everyone in his path was becoming more and more difficult, because apparently there were some dreadfully important mink coats down on B Deck, and Lady so-and-so couldn’t imagine taking the stairs to get it. The poor elevator operator was standing directly in the doorway, looking haggard and sleep-deprived and very much like he wasn’t confident in his ability to hold back the masses.

He seemed to relax when he saw Kurt, which rankled a little. Kurt was starting to get very sick of being viewed as a delicate and timid thing. But he took a deep breath, then said as calmly and clearly as he could manage, “I need to go down.”

“I’m so sorry, but I cannot do that, young sir.” The elevator operator said, sighing in relief as the mink-coat-less woman moved off in a huff. “The lift is closed.”

“I just need to--” Kurt began, a little less calmly.

But he was interrupted by a brisk, “The lift is closed. Please return to the deck and get onto a lifebo--”

Unfortunately for that poor, oblivious elevatorman, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester was in no mood to be trifled with. He may have been slender, fair, smooth-skinned and often mistaken for a young woman over the telephone, but by no means was he a pushover. Especially not now.

Before even Kurt could really think about what he was doing, he was lunging forward, propelling the elevator operator against the opposite wall of the lift, hands clenched in his shirt, snarling in a voice that didn’t even sound like himself -- “Take me down right this second or I swear to god I will throw you into the Atlantic myself.”

Needless to say, the lift was soon rattling downwards, containing a still-fuming Kurt and a rather shaken-looking elevatorman.

“Faster, faster, come on, come on,” Kurt half-whispered, arms crossed, foot tapping, as the elevator lurched down. B Deck, C Deck, D Deck --

“Mother of god!” The elevator operator’s professionalism dropped away as bitterly cold seawater sudden poured through the grate door, into the lift, soaking both passengers up to their knees. Kurt instinctively cried out, pressing back against the wall and almost not hearing the operator moan, “I’m goin’ up, sir, I’ve gotta go back up--”

No. Blaine.

“Stop!” Shoving the operator aside and fumbling with the door, Kurt managed to wrench it open and stumble out into the hallway, gritting his teeth at the icy splash of ocean water, up to his thighs, almost. The elevator was rising again, water spilling out from it, a sort of makeshift waterfall.

He barely noticed. His world had narrowed down to this nightmarish hallway, stark white, deserted, with furniture bobbing in the steadily rising water. Somewhere in this labyrinth of doors and twists and turns was Blaine. Now wasn’t the time to think of the aching numbness in his feet and calves, of the fact that he had no idea where he was, of the horrible screech of ice against metal, hours before, of the fact that he was essentially lost in a sinking tomb.

Now was the time to think of finding and rescuing Blaine.

With a deep breath, Kurt tugged his coat tighter around himself and started mumbling again. “Left, right, long corridor. Left, right, long corridor...”

---------------------------------------------------------

The water was up past Blaine’s knees now, and rising. Maybe if he could get some leverage, he could pull the pipe apart, could break it somehow. He was in an awkward position, but if he could get up on the desk floating nearby, could brace his feet against the wall...

“Shit,” he muttered, wet shoes slipping against the slick metal wall, stumbling back into the water, feet painfully cold. It was no use. He wasn’t nearly strong enough, not after the day he’d had. Once again he tugged at the cuffs, wishing his hands were just a bit smaller, easier to slip through.

Blaine was just about on the verge of trying to break bones or tear apart metal with his teeth, when he heard it. At first he thought he was hallucinating, daydreaming, reliving his favorite sounds in the last hour of his life.

But then, there it was again, that voice, calling his name, in the most desperate, stricken way.

“...Kurt?”

----------------------------------------------------------

“Blaine!” Damn that Schuester. He’d said “long corridor” -- well, there were at least three of those, all leading off from the right and then left. Or was it left and then right? Cold and fatigue and panic were clouding Kurt’s mind. He couldn’t remember.

So, standing there, panting and soaked, he desperately called out the name he’d forbidden himself from saying or thinking, hoping wildly that he’d be answered. “Blaine, where are you?!”

----------------------------------------------------------

It was him. Despite his predicament, Blaine paused long enough to spare a wide, delighted grin. Somewhere deep down, he’d always known Kurt would come for him. He cleared his throat, then began clanging the metal cuffs against the pipe again.

“Kurt, I’m here! I’m here, I’m down here! Follow my voice, I’m in here!”

----------------------------------------------------------

Stumbling over his own numb feet, pushing aside floating chairs and desks and end tables, his coat soaking wet and hindering his steps, Kurt was half-beaming, half-sobbing, calling out, yelling, screaming the name like a lifeline, BlaineBlaineBlaine. Everything was in that word, how sorry he was, how worried he’d been, how ashamed and guilty and relieved and happy.

And then he was shoving open the door and staggering across the room and flinging himself at Blaine, arms going around his neck, fingers into his hair, lips against his and kissing and kissing and kissing him like he would never stop.

“I found you. I found you.”