“Sorry.” Blaine, at least, had the manners to apologize to the woman he and Kurt nearly knocked over, leaving her skirt dusted with the debris of the now-demolished door. Well, after trying in vain to find an open stairwell, they’d resorted to more...proactive ways of getting to higher decks. The bewildered woman gave the two a mildly scandalized look, eyes flickering down to where the two boys’s hands were entwined, but they were beyond caring.

“Come on,” Kurt said, shortly, trying not to recoil at the stench of bodies packed too close together, the reek of sweat and fear. The majority of the mob seemed to be centered at a nearby stairwell, so, using his height as an advantage, Kurt fought his way forward, ignoring the surprised looks that the people gave his obviously-expensive shirt and trousers.

He was almost at the front of the mass of people, when he was nearly bowled over by a wide-eyed, messy-haired blond boy, who flung himself at Blaine and started jabbering in Italian. Kurt stumbled, letting go of Blaine’s hand and flailing wildly for his balance -- then felt his elbow being caught by a firm hand.

“All right then, mister?” The voice was thickly accented and amused, in spite of the stressful situation. Kurt frowned at his rescuer, a young Irish man, then squirmed away and scanned the crowd for Blaine.

The squawking blond boy was still going a mile a minute, drawing an involuntary grin from Blaine. Upon second glance, Kurt recognized Pavarotti, then identified the Irish boy as Rory. Nevertheless, he didn’t relax until he was back at Blaine’s side, hand-in-hand with him once again.
Rory arched an eyebrow at that, but he didn’t comment, gesturing scornfully at the stairwell instead. “This fancy-arsed -- sorry, sir,” Kurt rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at the apology, “-- stuffed shirt isn’t lettin’ anyone through. The gate‘s locked and they’ve got axes and pistols and they sure as hell -- ‘scuse me again, sir -- aren’t afraid to use them.”

“And there is nothing, niente, no stairs, no doors this way,” Pav added, pointing down the corridor that supposedly led to C Deck.

Blaine frowned, looking the picture of control and calmness, though his hand was gripping Kurt’s almost painfully tight. Then he nodded, firmly, pointing down the hall that led the other way. “We’ll go this way, then,” he said authoritatively. “Towards E Deck. Go back to go forwards. C’mon.”

The other two looked dubious for a moment, but Kurt followed without question, though his stomach clenched at the idea of navigating more hysterical third-class passengers. They’d already passed weeping women and men clutching at suitcases that no doubt contained all their wordly possessions. Even now, taking the turns, clutching at Blaine’s hand, it was hard not to stare at the people gathered in groups, chattering loudly in German or Swedish or Indian, panicked and lost and unable to read the signs that pointed the way out.

Finally, after what felt like hours in the twisting and turning halls, Blaine tugged him up another, smaller, less crowded stairwell -- only to be met with another locked gate. This time, though, tired and cold and frustrated, with the cut-apart cuffs still jangling on his wrists, Blaine did some elbowing and pushing of his own and made his way to the front.

There, just at like the bigger and more crowded stairwell, stood a haggard and wide-eyed steward, who was clearly using every bit of experience and training to remain calm while talking down a dozen or so terrified immigrants. “You have to go back to the main stairwell,” he was saying, over and over, like a broken record. “They’ll sort things out there. Go back to the main stairw --”

“Open the gate,” Blaine interrupted, one hand coming to grip onto the criss-crossing metal grille, his gaze intent and harboring no arguments. The sight and sound of him -- and of the clearly-affluent-if-soaking Kurt hovering just behind him -- was enough to startle the steward into silence for a moment. Taking a shaky breath, Blaine repeated, through gritted teeth, “Open the gate now.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to go back to the main stairwe--”

“Open this goddamn gate.” Blaine was not a large man. He was a short, compact, bright-eyed man who was perpetually smiling and charming. But right now the smile was gone and his eyes were narrowed and dark and blazing, and his hands were white-knuckled on the gate and he was terrifying.

Nevertheless, the steward started to stammer again, “Go back to the --”

“You son of a bitch!” Slamming both hands against the gate, rattling it violently, Blaine whirled around, looking so furious that Kurt instinctively took a step back. Seeing that, some of the anger left Blaine’s expression for a moment, replaced with grief and apology and desperation, his hand coming up, as if to touch Kurt’s pale face, because oh god, let the ship go under, let the entire world burn, but please, please, don’t let Kurt die down here.

Then, curling his hands into fists, Blaine looked around the narrow passageway, methodically searching for something, anything he could use to break down the gate and potentially the bastard guarding it. His eyes landed on the hard wooden bench, with one or two exhausted third-class passengers on it, and a look that was part delight, part grim satisfaction crossed his face.

“Pav, Rory, Kurt, help,” he said shortly, moving towards the bench like a diminutive dark-haired freight train. The passengers scattered as Rory and Blaine grabbed onto the bench, wrenching it back and forth, prying it up from where it was nailed into the carpet.

“Move, move, everyone, move,” Kurt snapped in a very ungentlemanly way, gesturing impatiently at the passengers, then going to help the others lift the bench. In some small part of his mind, he was actually quite pleased to be included.

The steward frowned for a moment at the seemingly inexplicable defacement of White Star Line property -- until the four young men and their makeshirt battering ram lined up with the flimsy gate and started counting down. Then the man’s face went white and he backed away, sputtering helplessly, “No, no, no, you can’t do tha --”

“Three!” Blaine yelled, and threw himself and the bench forward, slamming into the gate. It creaked, buckled, folded in on itself and, with a second blow from the bench, crumpled like paper. The passengers streamed through the opening, heedless of the flailing and indignant steward -- well, almost everyone was heedless. Rory got in a very nice right hook to the man’s jaw as he passed. All that nonsense about regulations was really getting on his nerves, after all.

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

“Money talks, Azimio. I’ve made my own way in this world and I’ll make my own luck in getting off this damn ship. Money talks, I tell you. Mark my words.”

“Consider them marked,” Azimio said placidly, standing by the doorway of the luxury suite, watching his employer stuff wads of cash into the deep pockets of his suit jacket. Instinctively, he slid one hand inside his own jacket, feeling to make certain his pistol, loaded and cleaned just that morning, was still safely in it’s holster. Azimio had his own ways of influencing people.

David’s way would probably be less messy, though, in the end. Both of them were aware that the ship had an inadequate amount of lifeboats, and with the “women and children first” rule in place, there wasn’t much chance of them getting onto one. At least, not without significant incentive.

Fortunately, while lacking in manners, charm and good looks, the Karofsky family had no lack of money. Nevertheless, Dave’s hands were a bit shaky as he grabbed at the blue jewel case, accidentally knocking it, several piles of cash and that damned brown notebook to the ground. With a muttered curse, he bent down and shoveled a few dozen bills into the case -- more protection against the water, he rationalized. It was a slim case, it’d fit.

Then he stood, making sure to stomp on Anderson’s book of songs on his way out of the suite. Azimio followed silently, using his height and imposing presence to help his employer muscle through the now-nearly-hysterical masses of people. It had become evident that a place on a lifeboat wasn’t guaranteed, and the passengers were starting to panic. Third-class men were hurtling themselves out of B and C Deck windows, trying to get into one of the lifeboats being lowered into the water. One woman, nervously teetering at the edge of the deck, trying to step into the already-lowering boat, was slammed into by one of the desperate men and fell, screaming, before being caught by the wrists and dragged back in through a window.

The screaming was the worst part, the sound of hundreds of voices rising in fear and confusion and panic. Karofsky winced, rubbing at his ears instinctively, as if that would block out the horrible sounds. He criss-crossed the top deck, heedless of “personnel only” signs, until he found one of the few boats that hadn’t left yet. A few well-placed words, a handful of bills stuffed into the commanding officer’s pocket and he was ready to queue up and...damn it, where was Azimio?

With a furious, frustrated sound, Karofsky spun around, looking for his suddenly-absent manservant. There wasn’t time for this, he had to leave, they had to leave as soon as possible. That officer wouldn’t wait forever, not with the shrieks of passengers filling the air. Even now the man was looking around, loading a few more trembling, weeping women into the boat, giving Karofsky a questioning look. If Azimio didn’t reappear within ten seconds --

“I found him.”

David gave a start, whirling around and barely refraining from shoving Azimio away. It wasn’t that he was scared -- of course not, he never got scared, he was fully in control of this situation, he was just a little on edge -- but his heart was racing and he didn’t particularly enjoy being snuck up on like that. “Found who?” he demanded, glancing over at the officer who was still loading passengers into the rapidly-filling boat. At this rate he’d have to stuff a few more bills into the man’s pocket, just to buy his way on.

“Kurt.” That got Dave’s attention, reminding him that, oh, yes, he’d sworn to find his wayward traveling companion and drag him bodily onto a lifeboat, if necessary. But rather than look triumphant, Azimio’s naturally-stony face was even more grim than usual. “He’s on the other side of the ship, waiting for a lifeboat. With him.”

Him. Anderson. Karofsky’s gut clenched and he saw red and he very nearly grabbed Azimio’s pistol and stormed across the ship to teach that gutter trash a lesson. Because how, how? No man alive could’ve gotten out of those cuffs, out of the flooded lower decks, through the throngs of screaming people, not without divine and potentially demonic aid.

Dave took a deep breath, raking his fingers through his hair. No, no time for that. The ship was flooding, no use dirtying his hands on a man who was doomed anyways. Kurt, on the other hand...the young man’s cold words, his defiance still rankled. But he was Brittany’s fiance, and David’s...whatever you’d like to call it and by god, Dave was not going to lose again.

With a last desperate look at the lifeboat, he swore violently under his breath, cursing that sonofabitchingbastard Anderson to all seven circles of Hell, then turned and followed Azimio back across the deck.

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

“I’m not going.”

It was freezing out here. Blaine had thought it was cold an hour or two ago, when the ship first hit the iceberg, but now it was well and truly unbearable. Being soaked to the skin didn’t help much, nor did the icy-cold metal of the handcuffs still on his wrists. Even Kurt, who was wrapped in two of the plaid blankets that stewards were handing out to waiting passengers, was shivering violently. Blaine had to resist the urge to enfold him in both arms and tug him close, to try and keep him from lookng quite so miserable.

They were waiting in a small group of people, clustered around one of the last lifeboats that hadn’t already lowered down and rowed away. The endless refrain of “women and children only” had died down, so Blaine had felt confident that the boat would at least accept Kurt. Besides, nobody with a heart could look at the pale, trembling, soaking wet first-class boy and not feel some sort of pity.

But now, just as the stewards were waving Kurt forward, he’d stopped abruptly, then turned and said those three words, in the firmest, most resolute voice Blaine had ever heard -- I’m not going.

Frustration and desperation warred for a moment, but Blaine managed to keep his voice gentle and pleading when he finally spoke. “Kurt, come on, this might be your last chance.”

“They won’t let you on. You know they won’t. I’m not going without you.” Now the words were beseeching, bordering on panic, and the look in Kurt’s wide eyes was hard to ignore.

Blaine forced a smile, a humorless laugh, fingers squeezing the cold pale ones that hadn’t untangled themselves, not for a second since they’d gotten out of the labyrinth of third class. “I’ll get on another one. I’ll find one, I’m tough. I’ll make it just fine, I promise. Come on, please, Kurt, just get in the boat --”

“No,” and his voice was getting higher, more frantic, and his other hand was coming up to clutch at Blaine’s shirt and it was becoming impossible to resist the urge to kiss him, comfort him,to hold him one last time. But, as it turned out, Blaine didn’t have the chance to do any of that. He felt the presence before he heard the voice --

“Yes, Kurt, please get on the boat.” For a man in the midst of a disaster, Karofsky looked and sounded astonishingly calm. His cool gaze raked over Kurt’s very un-Kurt-like appearance, then, with a click of his tongue, he pulled off the blankets and shoved them unceremoniously at Blaine. Replacing them with his suit jacket, Dave sighed over Kurt’s wet hair and shivering shoulders, hands smoothing over them as he commented, “Goodness, you look like a drowned rat --”

“Don’t touch me,” Kurt growled, stepping back, but tugging the warm, dry, woolen jacket tighter around himself. Then, defiantly -- “And don’t tell me what to do.”

Something dark and dangerous and unfortunately familiar flickered in Dave’s face, but he forced an artificial chuckle, crossing his arms. “It seems I’m not the only one who wants you to get off this ship safely. If you won’t listen to me, listen to your...” He paused, turning and giving Blaine a cold look, before finishing, “...friend.”

Kurt narrowed his eyes at Karofsky, then turned back to Blaine, already shaking his head. “I’m not leaving you,” he said, softly, with an unmistakable look on his face. When he looked like that, talked like that, Blaine found it impossible to believe that the whole world couldn’t see what they felt, what they had, what they were.

And he also found it impossible to believe his own words, as he opened his mouth and replied, “Don’t worry about me. Just go, please. Please Kurt.”

Clearing his throat, David interjected again, which got him a positively murderous look from Kurt. “I’ve made arrangements with another officer, on the other side of the ship, to ensure seats on a boat for myself and Azimio. I’m certain they’ll let Mr. Anderson on as well.” He offered a rather awkward smile, gesturing at the lifeboat. “But you’d better go, before it’s full.”

Kurt frowned, doubt written across his face as he turned back to Blaine. The other boy smiled, gently squeezed his hand, then nudged him towards the lifeboat. “Go,” he said, softly, slowly pulling his fingers free of Kurt’s.

The loss of that hand, warm and rough and familiar and right was even worse than the cold air, the icy water, the way Kurt was jostled and bumped as he was half-lifted onto the boat. Tugging the coat even tighter around himself, looking upwards with eyes stinging and hands shaking and heart wrenching, he watched the deck slowly rise up and away. Blaine stood without speaking, hands folded together, white-knuckled, like he was trying to replicate the feeling of Kurt’s hand in his.

And he was beautiful, even then, even wet and rumpled and exhausted, even in his much-too-thin, much-too-shabby clothes, with the light from the signal flares playing off the planes of his face, his lips, the tense line of his jaw, his eyes. And Kurt had kissed those lips, traced that jawline with his fingertips, felt those eyes on him every moment, waking and sleeping, day and night since boarding this ship. And Kurt had no idea what Blaine and Karofsky were saying, didn’t know that Dave was confirming Blaine’s suspicions that, while there was a lifeboat, there was no way that there’d be a seat for any third-class trash, didn’t know that Blaine was keeping his gaze locked on the one and only good thing left in his life, was watching Kurt disappear as he resigned himself to his fate.

Kurt didn’t know any of this and even if he had it wouldn’t have changed his mind or altered the decision he made next, as he stood suddenly and fought his way to the side of the lifeboat, as he gripped the edge and eyed the window that was just opposite. All he knew, all that mattered, all that remained as he wobbled between the dying ship and safety was that he loved Blaine, he loved him, he loved and refused to surrender him, not now, not yet, not like this.

So he jumped.