Just the one word didn’t seem to be enough, which was why Blaine panted it, gasped it, shouted it, running from the railing, through the crowds and crowds of people, shoving and elbowing and breathing “nonononono” with every desperate exhale. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He’d resigned himself, he’d made peace with his thoughts, he’d allowed himself the luxury of watching Kurt’s lifeboat lower away. Blaine had used those last few moments to memorize the lines of Kurt’s face, the full pout of his lower lip, the way his nose turned up, just a little, at the tip, those bright eyes that left him breathless every time he saw or thought or dreamed them.

He’d been watching the last bit of brilliance in this endless, freezing night disappear, when Kurt had stood, mechanically fighting his way to the side of the boat nearer the sinking ship, amid gasps and protests from the crewman and passengers. Blaine’s own protest -- no, no, sit down, stop this, what are you doing, Kurt, no -- had died on his lips, slain by the vague thought that maybe Kurt was reaching up, to give one last pronouncement, blow one last kiss, reach out and touch Blaine’s fingertips with his own, one last time.

The one thing Blaine hadn’t anticipated was for Kurt to abrupt leap off the lifeboat, towards the window of the ship. Again, the words had been strangled in his throat as he and Karofsky leaned perilously far over the rail, watching in horror as Kurt grabbed at the window, feet scrabbling at the hull of the ship, reminding Blaine sickeningly of the night they’d met. For a moment it had looked like he would fall, without a lifevest, into the ocean that, while closer than it had been two hours before, was still many feet below.

But then a passing man had grabbed the boy’s arms, then another had grabbed him by the collar and then he was back in the ship and running and Blaine was running too. Down the grand staircase, which they’d descended in grand splendor, past the people they’d rubbed elbows with, skidding across the marble floor where Blaine had stood, a mere two nights before, and realized that nobody in the world would ever look as beautiful as Kurt Hummel-Sylvester did in that crimson suit -- and hurtling into Kurt’s arms.

Cold, wet, shivering and breathless, babbling against the perfect skin, the silken hair, hissing words he didn’t mean -- stupid, so stupid, why the hell did you do that, why, why, why, Kurt -- and pulling away, angry and relieved all at once, to find Kurt half-smiling, half-crying.

“I couldn’t go, I couldn’t,” the other boy whispered, shaky hands moving over Blaine’s face, his neck, through his hair. “I can’t say goodbye, not to you, not ever. Never, Blaine, never.” He was fully smiling now, through the tears, through the kisses that neither of them really realized they were exchanging. “I’ll never say goodbye to you.”

And even if they were less than publicly acceptable, even if Blaine’s kisses rained down and collided with Kurt’s, on the corner of his perfect mouth, right smack-dab on those soft, warm, hungry lips, his cheeks, his forehead, on the tip of his nose, well, what of it? Nobody noticed, nobody cared, everyone was in their own little world, too busy trying to escape the sinking ship to notice two men, two boys, two people in love.

Well...almost nobody. One person noticed, standing at the top of the grand staircase, watching Blaine and Kurt tangled up in a desperate, relieved, wild embrace, watching them touch hands and foreheads and lips and noses, hearing the panting, breathless words of so stupid and never ever and always. He stood and he watched and he saw, and what he saw wasn’t abominable, wasn’t wrong or detestable or impure, but he hated it all the same.

David Karofsky saw them and he saw love and he saw everything he would never have.

And so, when Azimio came up, grabbed his arm and tried to lead him away, rather than going, rather than getting on the nearest lifeboat and sailing away from Titanic and the screaming and the sinking and the way Kurt kissed Blaine, Dave suddenly reached out, snatched the pistol out of his manservant’s holster and, whirling around, fired.

It was erratic and wild, but there were five left, and Blaine broke away from Kurt, grabbing his hand and shouting, “Run!” above the sound of another bullet hitting the pillar above their heads.

With a snarl, Karofsky was running, tripping down the steps, sprawling on the floor and giving Kurt and Blaine a head start. They ran wildly, adrenaline and hearts pumping, down one staircase, another, a scream escaping Kurt as a third shot was fired. It hit the wall this time, bits of plaster hitting the boys as they scrambled down and down and down.

The gilded wooden walls gave way to spartan white paneling, and the steps came to an end. Kurt and Blaine were suddenly in water up to their shins again, and they stopped instinctively. But another bullet came, this one sending up a spray of water, and they were running once again.

“Go, go, go!” Blaine panted, hearing the sound of a shot hitting the water again and wondering wildly if this was the fifth or sixth, if there was one left, if Atzimio had reloaded that bullet he’d been playing with, in the master-at-arms’s cabin, a hundred years ago. He was pushing Kurt ahead of him, almost knocking him over into the few inches of water, unsure if that splash was Karofsky charging into the water after them, or another shot.

He didn’t stop to find out, didn’t stop to see Karofsky pull the trigger repeatedly, once or twice or five times, because the splash had been another shot and, when he was up to his waist in the water, with the pistol aimed right between Kurt’s shoulderblades (he made an easy target, in that black suit jacket) he tried to fire again and nothing happened. Blaine and Kurt kept running, they didn’t look back, they didn’t see Dave throw the gun down in frustration, turn and storm up the steps, then stop, with a look of horror, then one of frustration, then one of half-hysterical amusement.

Kurt ran through the perfectly arranged dining room, uphill through the sinking ship, down another staircase, as Karofsky snarled to Azimio, “The diamond is in the coat. And the coat is on him.”, and Kurt was so tired, so scared, so cold and distracted, that he didn’t feel the weight of the case in his jacket pocket, or the way it bumped against his leg with every step.

By the time the two young men reached the bottom of the steps, they were out of breath, panting and shivering and on-edge. But Blaine felt safe enough, for the moment, to pause, to wave at Kurt to be quiet, and to listen for sounds of pursuit.

Nothing. Nothing except an odd rumbling, but...but that was coming from elsewhere, from the hall that ran past the stairwell where they stood. Curious, not wanting to go back the way they’d come and risk encountering an enraged Karofsky, the pair slowly stepped out into the hall, splashing through the ankle-deep water to find the rumbling.

They turned a corner, Kurt suppressing the shiver at how empty everything was, and found themselves face-to-face with tall, locked doors, straining and leaking and rumbling, water pouring through the cracks around the edges, looking like it was going to burst at any moment. For a moment Blaine and Kurt stood, staring in horror, not quite able to comprehend it.

That moment was all it took.

“Run, Kurt!” Blaine’s cry was almost lost in the sound of the doors giving way and a wall of water gushing through, gallons and gallons of it, icy and all-consuming and so fast. Kurt was turning and running, forcing his numb legs to work, to keep running, trying to keep ahold of Blaine’s hand, trying to outrun the sea and --

And the water hit him hard, knocking the breath out of his lungs, sweeping him off his feet and sending him careening down the hall, hand torn from Blaine’s, slamming against the wall, around a corner, hearing the sparking and crackling of the electrical wires above being drenched. He screamed -- how could he not? -- and there was water everywhere, water in his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his lungs, soaking him to the skin, carrying him along, no light, no air, nothing but the water.

But then there was something, an icy grip on his wrist, stopping him so suddenly that he collided with the wall again, then came up, sputtering and choking. Blaine had kept his head up, had kicked and fought enough to get out of the current and into an adjoining stairwell, and had somehow managed to grab Kurt’s wrist and pull him along. “Come on, Kurt, kick!” he rasped out, clinging to the railing to keep from being yanked off his feet.

Choking and coughing, Kurt grabbed onto Blaine’s arm and pulled himself, slowly, painfully, from the rush of ocean water that was still pouring in from the lower decks, through the hole rent in the iron side of an unsinkable ship. One hand over the other, then his shoes were slipping on the steps and Blaine’s arms were around him again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, you’re okay,” Blaine panted, closing his eyes and relaxing his grip on the railing, hand rubbing up and down Kurt’s wildly trembling back. “You’re okay now, you’re okay...”

They didn’t have much time to waste on holding one another -- the water was still pouring in, creeping up the steps behind them. Grasping Kurt’s hand again, Blaine tugged him along, up the steps, to the metal gate that lay at the top, reaching out to pull on it --

-- and stopping to stare in horror when it didn’t open.

“It’s locked,” Kurt whispered, eyes wide in his pale face. “It’s locked, oh god, it’s locked.”

Blaine swore under his breath, pulling his hand away to shake at the gate, once, twice, then kicking at it and cursing, louder. “God damn it!” he choked out, eyes stinging because there wasn’t a bench this time, there was just him and Kurt and the water lapping at their heels.

“Help!” Kurt joined in the shaking and pounding and kicking, but he was tired, they were both so tired and they weren’t strong enough to pull the gate out of the wall. Even if the lifeboats weren’t plentiful enough, the rest of the ship had been tested and tried and these gates were set deep in the walls and there was no other way out, no way out...

It was either luck or fate or the answer from some diety, but just then a crewman, soaked and haggard and bleeding from the forehead, came stumbling along the hall on the other side of the gate. He started to go up the stairwell, but froze at the rattling and Kurt’s desperate, “Please, sir, please! Please, open the gate!”

The man turned, all manners and training gone, nothing more than just another lost, desperate human, wanting to get out, knowing as they all did that the boats were gone, that chances to live were running out. He hesitated, looking at the two boys with stricken, fearful eyes. He turned, took another step up, stopped when Kurt let out a sound that was half sob and half “Please...”

And then, with a helpless sigh, he turned and splashed over to the gate, fumbling in his pocket and pulling out his keys. Blaine breathed a sigh of relief, trying not to think about the water creeping up to their waists, as the man’s shaking hands sorted through the ten or twelve keys, trying to find the right one, holding one up to the lock, rejecting it, trying another -- then losing his grip and dropping the keys into the water.

Time seemed to stop as the crewman looked in horror at the chest-deep water, then at Kurt and Blaine. “...I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he croaked, already stumbling backwards, grief and regret warring in his face.

“No!” Kurt screamed, but the crewman was already gone, running up the steps, leaving them there, leaving them to die, and Kurt was rattling the gate again, sobbing and Blaine --

Blaine was gone. Blaine had disappeared and Kurt’s mouth worked wordlessly for a moment, and this was somehow worse than the crewman abandoning them, and he was just working up the air to scream --

“Blai--”

The third class boy suddenly reappeared from under the water, soaked and gasping, holding up the keys with a triumphant grin. Sagging against the gate in relief, Kurt looked back at the water, up to their shoulders and rising, then waved wildly at the lock. “Open it, open it! The little one, the sharp one, try that one, Blaine, come on, please--”

The water was up past the lock and the key kept slipping, scraping against the metal, small and hard to manage and Blaine’s hands were so numb and oh god, if he dropped them, he’d never be able to find them again, now with the water up to his neck and Kurt gasping beside him to hurry, hurry, hurry Blaine.

A desperate gasp and they were both underwater, just as the key went in and turned and Blaine’s icy hands wrenched open the gate and shoved Kurt through, towards the stairwell up and out. Kurt swam blindly, finding the railing by running into it, then emerging from the water with a desperate gasp for air. He turned, looking around wildly for Blaine, but the other boy was already there, grabbing his hand and leading him up and out.

"Go, Kurt, go, run!"

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

There was a cello, a viola and two violins in the band. They stood on the deck, in the midst of chaos, playing soft, sweet songs, lively tunes, dancing reels, as people fought and screamed and wept all around them. However, as the hour hand slid past two a.m., as the boats became fewer and fewer, as men and women and children panicked and despaired, the band stopped, hesitated, made as if to leave and save themselves -- and then took up their bows for one last song.

It played, soft and sweet, as third-class passengers elbowed and fought, held at bay by a frantic crewman with a pistol, who swore to shoot anyone who took a step towards the lifeboat. It played as Rory Flannagan spewed obscenities, telling the crewmen to “Let us through, let us through, goddamn you, let us have a chance!” It played as a man tripped, fell forward, pushing Rory forward as well, and the crewman made good on his order, pulled the trigger and shot Rory through the heart.

It played as David Karofsky fought his way forward, hissing at the crewman -- “We had a deal” -- only to have his money flung in his face, as the man lifted the pistol and placed it to his head.

It played as Pavarotti wept over Rory’s body, as the crewman who’d murdered him fell lifeless into the sea, and as Karofsky turned and fought his way to another boat.

It played as, down in their suite, Tina and Michael held each other tight, him humming in her ear, drowning out the sound of the ocean filling their room by reminding her of how they’d danced together, all those years ago, how they’d fallen in love, how they were in love even then, even as the sea claimed them.

It played as Finn Hudson, face pale, mind full of Quinnie and her face and her eyes and their child, gravely shook the hand of Noah Puckerman, the two of them in the grand salon with brandies, watching the ocean rush up the staircase, dying as gentleman.

It played as, down down down in the third class, a mother whispered stories to her children, sending them off to sleep so they wouldn’t realize they were doomed.

It played as Captain Figgins walked, in a haze, to the wheel of the ship, as he closed the door and stood at the helm and watched the nose of his ship sink down into the Atlantic, watched and waited to die.

It played as Sue and Beiste sat side-by-side in the lifeboat, out in the ocean, as Beiste murmured words that were half prayer and half curse, as Sue closed her eyes and thought of anything, everything to keep her mind from thoughts of the beautiful, spirited, tempestuous, wonderful child she’d never quite learned how to love enough, who she’d never see again.

The band played sweetly, poignantly, Nearer My God To Thee, as Kurt and Blaine ran, still hand-in-hand, still together, still refusing to say goodbye or be parted. It played as they ran through another dining room, as Kurt halted in his tracks at the sight of William Schuester, pale and drawn and silent, standing by the fire, staring at the painting which hung above it, life jacket forgotten on the table behind him.

“Won’t you try?” Kurt asked, unable to help himself.

And all Will did was turn, was look at the two boys, seeing their fingers twisted together, seeing the way they stood so close, like they couldn’t bear to stray too far. Perhaps he thought of his first love, at home in Ireland, red hair like fire in the sunshine. Perhaps he thought of his last love, the ship that was his life’s greatest work, going to pieces beneath his feet. Perhaps he was too far gone to think of anything at all.

But whatever he thought, what he did was turn, lift the life jacket and move to place it over Kurt’s head, buckling it on with slow, methodical movements. Once that was done, he offered the faintest of smiles.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make you a better ship, Kurt,” he whispered.

Then he turned back to the fire, pulling out his pocketwatch and adjusting the clock on the mantel, ever-so-slightly. Kurt wanted to stay, for some reason, wanted to do something, to help. But Blaine squeezed his hand gently, so he turned and continued to run.

The band played through this all, to the very end, but the song came to a close, as all songs do, and what became of the band members was not as iconic as their bravery in playing. Death was the easy thing now, the surrender either freely given or forcefully taken from thousands of men and women. Living became the challenge.

Pavarotti stripped the bloodstained life jacket off of his fallen friend, buckling it on and hurrying to cut free the last overturned lifeboat. But while in the water, while swimming to try and secure a place on the boat he’d helped save, one of the massive smokestacks of Titanic suddenly gave a shuddering groan and fell. He failed the challenge.

Karofsky looked around frantically, then scooped up a weeping child huddled behind a pile of abandoned luggage. The crewmen were too harried and frightened to question, so he found himself on a boat, with a wailing little girl in his lap, pretending he knew who she was. A wave nearly upset the boat, but he kept his footing, pushing and shoving at anyone who tried to climb aboard, ruthless in his pursuit of living. His ruthlessness was what saved him.

Countless others lived and died, in those last minutes. Leaping from the sides of the ship, falling when they didn’t willingly jump, trapped inside the endless flooded rooms on D Deck, A Deck, E, F, G, X, Y, Z, it didn’t matter anymore. Class was nothing anymore.

This was perhaps why nobody questioned Kurt and Blaine, as they fought their way to the back of the ship, Blaine panting to Kurt, “We have to stay on this ship as long as possible,” as they elbowed past weeping, praying, screaming people from every country, calling out in every tongue. The ship was going down by the head, so they ran to the back, joining the dozens who’d had similar thoughts, clinging to the railing at the stern, feet slipping on the wooden deck as they wrapped their arms around the metal rail and clung for dear life.

The ship was nearly vertical in the air now, halfway underwater, the stern sticking straight up into the night sky. Thousands were already in the water, with more falling every moment, screaming and crying. Kurt was shivering violently, stomach churning with every bloodcurdling shriek, eyes shut against the sight of people falling to their death. His hand was white-knuckled on the railing, cold and aching from clinging so tightly, and he almost wanted to let go, almost wanted to just give up and make this stop.

But then, all of a sudden, startling enough to make him open his eyes, to look up and meet Blaine’s bright amber-colored ones, the other boy’s big, roughened, somehow-still-warmer hand covered his, helping him to hold on, reminding him to not give up, to not say goodbye.

And Kurt smiled through his tears, past the horror and the terror of this night, leaning in and resting his forehead against Blaine’s, and whispered the same words he’d been told on that night, the other horrible, terrible night when he’d almost leapt, when he’d been saved in every way a person can be saved, by the boy he loved --

“Don’t let go of me, Blaine. Don’t let go.”