April in Southampton is unpleasant. Most seasons in Southampton are, actually. Southampton is where clouds and grey go to retire, and where a sunbeam is looked upon with bafflement and a bit of nervous awkwardness, like a cat in a dog kennel -- what are we supposed to do with this thing?

There were a multitude of other contributing reasons for this April day being unpleasant, not the least of which was the acutely-angled elbow that had taken up residence somewhere between Kurt Hummel-Sylvester’s third and fourth rib. Ms. Susan Sylvester had a level of preparedness that would make the Royal Army envious, and part of this meant being perpetually on-guard to snap her ward into line. The energy required to move her sinewy arm from it’s place nestled against one equally sinewy side to jab painfully into Kurt’s ribcage was simply not worth it.

Therefore, she’d settled it contentedly in place, whilst somehow managing to simultaneously apply color onto her perpetually pursed lips. Privately, Kurt thought that the hue she’d chosen -- calling it “tarty” was a kindness -- made it look like she’d just messily devoured a small furry animal. This was probably the effect she’d intended.

With an infinitesimal adjustment towards the door and away from Ms. Sylvester, Kurt reached down and smoothed inexistent wrinkles out of his pinstriped suit jacket. “I thought I didn’t have to worry about sloppiness anymore,” he commented in a monotone. “Now that you’ve successfully married me off.”

“Nothing’s official til the ink on the marriage certificate is dry.” Sue smacked her lips together so loudly that Kurt distinctly saw several shadowy figures outside the car look around in alarm. “You can stop worrying after you and that sweet little blonde-shaped hunk of cash are living in wedded bliss and you’re explaining the joy of separate bedrooms and the horror of consummated marriages to her. Til then, stay on your toes, babydoll.”

Kurt couldn’t quite suppress the slow, disdainful sneer that flickered across his normally immobile features. There were many theories as to how the obviously “common" (as the ladies at bridge were fond of whispering when they thought he was busy being captivated by their daughters’ many charms) Sue Sylvester had gotten her fortune. His personal favorite was the one wherein she strangled a series of innocent virgins and bathed in their tears to steal their beauty, then seduced their rich beaux.

Not that it mattered now. It -- his money, her money, the money -- was gone, squandered here and there in the capitals of Europe, flitted away right under his nose. The past two years had been a grief-stricken blur, but the idea that so much money could’ve been spent without his noticing still made Kurt cringe. Careless. That’s what he’d been. Horribly, woefully careless.

Sighing as quietly as he could and squaring his shoulders, Kurt lifted his chin and pressed away from Sue’s elbow, just a fraction of an inch more. He couldn’t afford to be careless anymore.

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

“Sei stato distratto, stupido idiota.”

The dark-haired young man didn’t respond for a moment, apparently unaware of his fidgety, squirming friend’s discomfort. In fact, he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed, sitting slouched in his chair, tumultuous curls tumbling over his bemusedly quirked eyebrows, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. His only movement was to shuffle his cards around a little and narrow his lazily-lidded eyes a fraction of an inch. Looking at him, all effortless, rakish charm, one would almost expect to see a couple of coquettish barmaids lounging across from him, batting their eyes in hopes of getting a wink or a grin.

Instead, there were two surly, silent, stony-faced Swedes, sitting ramrod straight and showing their first emotion of the morning -- concern. This sentiment was shared by the fidgety, flighty towheaded youth sitting by the dark-haired cardplayer’s side, his own hand forgotten in his nervousness. The reason for the tense air -- shared by all those watching, in the little bar overlooking the docks -- was simple: two thin, seemingly insignificant pieces of paper, lying on top of the assortment of coins that made up the poker pot, bearing the White Star Line logo.

Tickets. Tickets to board the greatest ship the world had ever seen, tickets to become temporary residents of that magnificent floating city, that gargantuan, unsinkable mammoth, that Nave dei Sogni, that ship of dreams. Two tickets on Titanic.

Blaine Anderson slowly drew out one card, setting it face down on the discard pile, picking one from the deck with only slightly trembling hands. Tickets home.

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

“God’s nightgown, can’t we just run a couple of them over?” The elbow had been removed, thank God -- or his nightgown, whoever was responsible -- in favor of allowing Sue to light one of her many furtive cigarette’s, which she puffed on like a faulty chimney, squinting out the window of the car at the crowd. “I’d take being crushed to death in a street over being crushed to death in third class.”

Kurt coughed quietly into his sleeve, a passive-aggressive commentary on his guardian’s smoking habits, then turned to examine the hundreds of people who’d scrimped and saved for months -- for years, perhaps -- to buy passage in the deepest bowels of the world’s greatest ship. It was astonishing, how many hopes and dreams were bound up in their gaunt, world-weary faces as they looked towards Titanic. They were like men and women and children born again, given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to better themselves, to escape.

Unlike me, Kurt mused bitterly, bracing his feet on the floor of the car as it lurched to a stop, so he wouldn’t be thrown forward. My only escape now would involve flinging myself at the propellor and hoping nobody noticed.

The door opened as he was reaching for it, eager to escape the scent of smoke and Sue’s perfume, and his fingers came to rest for a fraction of a second on a proffered hand, large, thick and meaty, with a perpetual sheen of sweat. Kurt’s flinch was instinctive, the curl of his lip and the indignant flash of his eyes shot upwards before he could check himself.

David Karofsky, elder cousin and guardian of Kurt’s fiance, and the self-appointed escort to the Hummel-Sylvester pair, drew back as well, hand curling into a fist for a stomach-churning second. Kurt reacted, again, without conscious thought. His lips pressed together so tightly they turned white, and his chin jutted out in the stubborn way that had always gotten his whims obeyed in childhood. He wouldn’t dare, Kurt thought wildly, maintaining eye contact for a few sickening shudders of his heartbeat. He wouldn’t dare, not here, not with everyone watching.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t until Dave exhaled, stepping back and letting his hands return to his sides that Kurt also let himself relax. “I thought you’d appreciate a little help,” the older, and decidedly bigger man said, voice still retaining that sullen quality it’d held in their youth.

Kurt let out a short, barking sort of laugh, squaring his shoulders and climbing out of the car with as much dignity as he could force his shaky limbs to exude. “I’m quite capable of getting out of a car, David,” he replied, coolly, taking his tall silk hat from under his arm and brushing it off. It hardly needed it -- all his clothes were always impeccable -- but it kept him from having to make eye contact.

He was well-aware that he owed David -- and, indeed, the entire Karofsky family fortune, made in the steel mills -- a great deal. After Burt Hummel had unexpected died two years before, and his automobile manufacturing company had gone under, everyone who was anyone had assumed that it was only a matter of time before Kurt’s prospects went the way of his wealth. Even the unexpected benefactor in the form of one Sue Sylvester had only been a temporary stopgap measure.

That was why everyone -- not least of all Kurt himself -- had been surprised when David Karofsky, a fellow American gentleman in Europe, had proposed an bargain of sorts: a merging of the Hummel company and the Karofsky mill. In addition, he’d promised the hand of his young cousin and ward, Miss Brittany Pierce, to further solidify the alliance. Sue hadn’t even hesitated before agreeing, reminding Kurt sharply “what other choice do we have?” The marriage solved everything -- the money troubles, the lack of a place to live in England, not to mention the steadily more and more malicious rumors about the young Mr. Hummel’s “tendencies”.

At almost eighteen, without having courted a single young lady, and with a decidedly “unnatural” predisposition for fine garments, the rumor mills were running rampant about Kurt. It had been getting to the point where he could hardly walk down the streets without hearing the tell-tale hissing of whispers and the mean-spirited snickering. Marrying an attractive and wealthy woman was the only way out.

And if moving into a large, opulent mansion with the notoriously empty-headed Miss Pierce and her domineering, overbearing guardian was part of that way, well, then so be it. Kurt was going to take it like a man, was going to smile and nod and be a perfect gentlemen, and pretend that he didn’t know about the other, unspoken, unmentioned and much darker terms of the agreement. He wasn’t the only one taking this trip who showed “unnatural tendencies”, as the broad hand settled at the small of his back so eloquently spoke.

Stepping away from David’s touch with a sharp intake of breath, Kurt settled his hat on his perfectly coiffed hair and turned on his heel. His suggestion to get moving died in his throat as he set eyes on Titanic for the first time. For a moment he was a child again, pressed close to his father’s side, dressed all in black mourning clothes and being ushered onto a looming dark ship that would take him across the sea, far from the fresh earth of a burial plot, bearing the words “Beloved Wife and Mother”.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” To his credit, David didn’t attempt to touch Kurt again, his arm occupied with escorting Sue, as a true gentleman would. But he did lean in close, close enough that the scent of his sweat and cologne and hair was just as overpowering as it was during the unspoken-of dark times, and the note of smug mocking was almost tangible. “They say God Himself can’t sink this ship.”

Kurt’s eyes lingered along the glossy black hull of the ship for a moment more, breath caught in his chest, constricted by the icy hand of panic. Because unlike when he was a child, this ship wasn’t taking him off to a new and better life, where he would be with loved ones, safe and sound. This ship was taking him into bondage, into a slavery of sorts, where he would belong body and soul to the smirking, looming presence that haunted his nighttime and tormented his days. He felt suddenly as if his life was going to end on this ship.

My life ended a long time ago.

Shrugging his shoulders back and lifting his chin in the air, Kurt turned and offered Dave a cool, smug sort of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t believe in God,” he all but purred.

Then he adjusted his hat slightly, and started towards the gangplank.

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

“Whatcha got, Pav?”

The fidgeting of the Italian youth was on the verge of vibrating the wooden chair he sat on. Blaine had to spare his friend a sympathetic, yet annoyed sort of look. After all their time together, Pavarotti still couldn’t muster up a decent poker face.

Not that it mattered, for with a twitch of his hand, Pav tossed down his cards. “Nothing. Niente. Zip and nada, as you say in your America.” He slumped back in his chair, running his shaky fingers through his mussed hair and giving the pile of money a longing look. “Addio, my darlings. It was nice, this time I had with you, until my bastardo amico convinced me to give you up.”

Blaine grinned around his cigarette, turning and eying one of the Swedes -- Sven or Olaf, one of the two -- expectantly. “How about you...buddy?” Well, he didn’t want to offend the guy even more by getting his name wrong.

Sven/Olaf slowly turned towards Blaine, eyes narrowed into tiny slits, face a steely mask of annoyance. He’d been the one who hadn’t been so excited about this game, especially when his friend had, in a moment of cockiness, bet their tickets. And now he was even less excited, slowly setting down his useless cards and shaking his head.

In a show of brotherly sympathy that surpassed oceans and borders, Blaine shook his head as well, the ashes from his cigarette landing dangerously close to the tickets. Pavarotti gave a squawk of panic, then sat back in his seat, shaking his head and mumbling a series of words that primarily included the words “bastardo” and “Blaine”.

Olaf/Sven, who had bet the tickets, cleared his throat, somehow managing to even make that action slow and ponderous. Then, with his dark eyes fixed on the mussy-haired American, he laid down his cards -- two pair.

Pavarotti gaped at the hand, then shrunk down in his seat, hands over his face, fingers twisted in his hair. “I hate you, my amico. All my money, it is gone, all of it. How will I show my face in my Papa’s house again, a penniless gambler, who consorts with bastardi arroganti? How, I ask you?”

Blaine managed to tear his eyes away from the Swede’s hand, snuffing his cigarette out, then reaching his hand to clap his friend consolingly on the shoulder. “Well, buddy...I would say with a genuine American hot dog, but I doubt that’d keep long enough for us to get back.”

His face transfixed with a brilliant, gleeful grin, that had stolen and broken hearts from New York to Norway, Blaine tossed down his five winning cards -- a full house, at that! -- and snatched the two precious tickets off the table. Without even waiting for his stunned friend to stand, or for the enraged Swede’s to start at one another’s throats, he flung his arms out, spun towards the window and announced to the bar, the crowded dock and that big beautiful ship -- “Look out, USA, Blaine’s coming home!”