It truly was like being in a great floating hotel. Or a city, more like, with hotels, yes, but also with restaurants and promenades and even a chapel or two. Something for everyone, really, Kurt mused, examining the high hat he’d worn so haughtily up the gangplank and through the higher-class decks the day before. He’d intended to duck gracefully through the door to their suite, the picture of composure and poise. Of course, this was until David had abruptly reached out a hand and caught his elbow, tugging him back and very nearly off his feet entirely, so Sue could pass through the doorway first. The bigger man hadn’t even seemed the least bit repentant, bending down and scooping the hat off the floor, with a sneer and a snide remark about how acting like a woman didn’t mean Kurt had the same privileges as one. Ladies first, and all.

Face flaming in embarrassment and fury, Kurt had snatched away the hat and bit out a short series of words, something about going to bed early. Anything to get away. The hat wasn’t crushed, or even dusty -- the lushly carpeted floors of first class held not even the tiniest speck of dirt -- but he’d still held it like he would something fouled, until he could set it down. Now, the next day, he still couldn’t look at it without his heart speeding up in that sickening mix of anger and fear. So, exhaling slowly, he chose to look around the sitting room instead.

Kurt wasn’t the type to be easily swayed by fine things, but honestly. He’d seen less opulent rooms in the finest hotels of Europe. It was small, yes, but no more so than his quarters in Southampton had been. The walls were richly paneled with a dark wood, gilded with gold furnishings and accented by enough fresh flowers to make Kurt’s head spin a little from the scent. There were heavily upholstered lounges, an end table with an already-open box of cigars -- and ah, there it was. The piano.

For the first time all day, Kurt’s stony expression melted, into something that could almost be a smile. It just figured that it came when there was nobody around to see it, not a soul in the little sitting area except him, nobody to see the almost affectionate expression he bestowed on the instrument, lifting the lid carefully and running his long fingers over the keys.

Kurt sighed, softly, his shoulders slumping a bit, like a weight had been lifted off them, as he slowly sat on the cushioned bench, back straight, wrists loose and relaxed, fingers curled perfectly. The steady thrumming of the magnificent ship all around him seemed to melt away, the rumbling of the engines, the almost-intangible shudders as the bow cut through the sea, the knowledge that below his shiny black shoes, a teeming mass of poor and unwashed crammed themselves into rooms the size of his fireplace.

Kurt forgot all of that, forgot everything but the smoothness of the keys under his fingers, the rumble in his own chest and throat, the almost-intangible shivers as waves of sound from the piano mixed deliciously with the soft, high, sweet voice he so rarely let out these days. He forgot he was a penniless orphan, with nothing but a fine name, he forgot about the bride awaiting him, the life laid out for him. He forgot about being trapped. And for a blissful shining moment, everything was lovely.

It just figured that the moment had to be shattered by a heavy hand coming down on his shoulder, and a scornful voice -- “You and that damned piano.”

Drawing in his breath so quickly it was like a half-formed scream, Kurt jerked away from the piano, slamming down the cover, like Karofsky’s presence would somehow take the beautiful thing he’d found and taint it. It wasn’t too illogical a fear -- he tainted everything else. Breathing heavily, with more fear than he liked to admit, Kurt narrowed his blazing blue eyes, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder with a well-practiced air.

“That damned piano and I what?” he shot back, chin jutting out once more. “You’ve only given me half a sentence to mull over, David. You need an adjective of some sorts, or perhaps a pronoun? A verb? Something to complete your no-doubt exceptionally pithy comment about my damned piano and myself.”

Karofsky drew back once more, hand sliding away from Kurt’s slender shoulder and coming to hang limply at his side. He’d changed, somehow, in the hour or so since they’d left shore, and the crisply-pressed suit had already taken on the ill-fitting air that fine clothes always seemed to assume, when placed on David Karofsky’s body. For such a wealthy gentleman, he certainly didn’t look it. Especially not when his eyes were narrowed and his lips were pressed together in that way they always did when he was debating getting angry. They were alone now, after all, just the two of them in the decadent parlor.

But, to Kurt’s silent and subtle relief, David merely stepped back, waving a hand towards the bedroom that had been alloted to the youngest member of this little traveling party. “Go get changed. Ms. Sylvester’s arranged for us to have brunch with Mr. Schuester, the designer of the ship, and a few of the other more...suitable men on this ship.” He cracked a bit of a smile, that was as ill-fitting as his suit. “And a Ms. Molly Shannon Beiste, too. New money kind of woman. Common, but amusing. A lot like the folks you’re used to, I imagine.”

Not even deigning to respond to that not-so-subtle jab, Kurt inclined his head slightly, then rose from the piano bench. He gently straightened the roses set on top of the small instrument, silently ignoring Dave until he shifted uncomfortably and left, then turned towards his rooms with a soft sigh. Once again, the world had sharpened to painful clarity, and he could feel the rumbling of the ship below his feet, reminding him that there was no escape.

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

“Do you think they will ask the questions, amico mio?”

Blaine shifted a little, adjusting to a more comfortable position against the railing. He was attempting to somehow get a perfect view of the sea and the sky, while still supporting his writing hand. If this meant contorting himself so his knee was almost up to his ear, and the free hand was stuck through the bars of the railing, then so be it.

“Who will ask questions about what, Pav?” he responded finally, distracted by trying to remember the day before. When he’d first set foot on this gorgeous hunk of metal and wood, when he’d hastily dumped his and Pavarotti’s bags in the miniscule room allotted to them -- and to two of Sven-and-Olaf’s friends, who’d given them mistrustful, if bewildered looks -- and dragged his easily-distracted friend up to the top of the deck, when he’d waved gleefully and vigorously at the crowds gathered to see the ship off, so vigorously, in fact, that Pav had been convinced he knew every single member of the crowd personally. When he’d fought his way to the bow, watching the sun leap off the water and the ship cut smoothly through the waves. When he’d felt like the king of the whole damn world. He was trying to reimagine that feeling, to somehow capture that bliss, that freedom, that sense of life beginning again, and turn it into lines and dots on a page.

Life as a drifter had been kind to Blaine Anderson -- he’d never gotten severely beaten or mugged, he’d never spent too many nights in a row sleeping out in the cold, and he made enough money through means both honest and otherwise to buy a few sheets of lined paper and some pencils. And with those pencils, on that paper, Blaine wrote songs. He wrote songs with words and without, simple melodies that he hummed as he went about his day and long worded ballads about his many adventures. He wrote songs with many parts, for brass and strings and wind, the kind of songs that were played in the grand halls he used to stand outside, straining his ears for a thread of the symphonies that made grown men weep. He wrote songs for the simplest instruments, a fiddle, a flute, a clear pure voice and a pair of clapping hands.

But his true love was the piano. Late at night, lying in a bunk or on a bench, in a hotel or under the stars, his hands would lift and his fingers would move, mapping out the keys and chords and notes, until he could play the song literally in his sleep. The fact that Blaine hadn’t so much as touched a piano in a good three years didn’t matter. As soon as he got the chance, he knew he could sit down and let the music that had been building up in his skin and bones all these months flow from his fingertips. Maybe someone would hear him and want to buy his music, want to dress him up and put him on one of those big concert stages. Maybe someone would hear him and shoo his dirty hands away from the pristine keys.

It didn’t really matter. All that mattered to Blaine was getting all the beauty he had pent up inside him out into the world, for people to take it or leave it, as they pleased. And right that moment, the beauty he was most focused on was that feeling of flying, that feeling that nobody could touch him, nothing could bring him down, that gravity no longer applied, because he was on a ship built for kings, headed to a land where anything could happen.

Of course, Pavarotti and his chirping weren’t making that too easy.

“These men we share our cabin with. They look mean, si? They look like they will smother us in our sleeping.” This was said half to the distracted Blaine, and half to a bemused-looking young man, who was perched on back of the bench and watching the fidgety blond Italian and his disinterested friend.

“They haven’t yet, have they now? You’ve been here one whole night, and you’re still right as rain,” the man commented, in a thick Irish brogue. This seemed to momentarily subdue Pav, which Blaine silently gave thanks for, scribbling down a few notes, pausing and changing a bass clef to a treble and so on.

Less than a minute later, though, Pavarotti was off again, wondering if the Swedes were simply “biding the times”, though he directed most of his questions to the Irishman, who introduced himself eventually as Rory. Blaine didn’t mean to be rude, he honestly didn’t, but the song he’d thought of up on the bow the previous day was slipping away quickly, driven off by a night in cramped, rat-infested quarters, with the stink of humanity filling his senses and making him toss and turn until Pavarotti had thrown a pillow down at him.

Sighing in mild frustration and raking his free hand through his perpetually mussed curls, Blaine shifted around some more, trying a variety of positions before finally sitting up and all but smacking his notebook down on the bench. This wasn’t working. Maybe he should go hang off the bow a little more and ask the dolphins what they thought about chord progression. Anything was better that hearing Pav’s piping voice warring with Rory’s smugly-informed comments about the fact that this whole ship had been built by Irishmen.

Blaine was just about ready to retreat into his stateroom and draw some tortured inspiration from the fleas in his thin mattress, when he glanced up, across the deck reserved for the low-class folks and his gaze fell on the first-class deck. More specifically,it fell on the tall slender figure who stood, leaning lightly against the railing, hands folded loosely together, broad shoulders slumped slightly in careless relaxation, dark brown hair ruffled by the salty air, eyes vague and unfocused, looking at nothing in particular. But then, all of a sudden they were, they were looking over, they were looking at the lower deck, they were looking at Blaine.

And just like that, the whole world shifted.

Rory and Pavarotti continued their conversation unhindered for a moment, until, suddenly aware that he hadn’t been told to “shut up for a second, Pav” in a good five minutes, the fair-haired Italian looked over at Blaine. He’d only seen that intent, enraptured look in those bright eyes a few times, usually when Blaine was in the throes of some sort of inspiration. Pavarotti followed his friend’s gaze, up to the first-class deck, where one of the many impeccably-dressed young gentlemen stood, head turned away, like he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t have.

“One of society’s finest, no doubt,” Rory remarked bitterly, entirely missing the way Blaine’s lips pressed together, and how his hands curled and twitched like they were longing to hold onto something, and the way his gaze never wavered for a second from the higher deck. “Comin’ to see how the other half lives.” Then he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, reaching out and snagging the matchbook that dangled from Pavarotti’s hand, inviting an indignant protest.

The other two young men forgot about Blaine and the first-class gentleman. They didn’t see how their silent companion’s eyes feasted on the loosened collar, the long-fingered hands curled around the railing, the way the mid-afternoon sun turned chestnut-brown hair to reddish-gold, lighting up the slim frame from behind, bathing him in light. They didn’t see how Blaine warred between closing his eyes and reliving the ocean-colored gaze turning his way, and staring intently in case the young man glanced over again.

They didn’t see how, once the first-class boy had turned and left, in the company of a larger, older, much more annoyed gentleman, Blaine’s fingers curled once again around nothing, then reached out, grabbing his paper and pencil, and started effortlessly writing music.

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

Dizzy. That was the proper adjective for how Kurt was feeling. Dizzy and choked and suffocating. His clothes were too tight and too light at the same time, leaving him strangled and shivering, all at once. The air in the dining room was a tangible weight across his shoulders and along every limb, weighing his hands in his lap, pinning his body to the chair. He couldn’t move even if he’d been allowed to.

And he couldn’t breathe, oh god, oh dear god, he couldn’t breathe.

Lunch had been a disaster. He’d sat still and let Karofsky order for him, let his occasional attempts at contributing to the conversation be swallowed up by Sue’s raucous laughter, let the ship’s designer -- Mr. Schuester, who seemed sympathetic, if a bit inept -- and the other guests talk over his head. Of course, when he’d dug around in his pocket after a moment and pulled out a cigarette and holder, which had been promptly confiscated by David, he’d finally gotten noticed.

Ms. Molly Shannon Beiste was, as promised, both amusing and common, pointing out the things that polite society would overlook, speaking of subjects that wouldn’t even be thought of in most circles. She talked about money and scandals and romantic entanglements like a man would, and she certainly didn’t let David’s overbearing attitude go uncommented on.

“Doesn’t he ever let you off the leash, son? You’re letting him treat you like some sort of prize poodle,” she’d asked, in between too-loud bites of roast chicken.

The entire table had laughed awkwardly, uncomfortably, the majority of those present looking to Karofsky for guidance as whether to be amused or insulted. Karofsky’s face had been a twisted mixture of rage and laughter, and the hand that had been subtly resting on Kurt’s knee all evening suddenly slid up his thigh and squeezed, hard.

Kurt had jumped like he’d been shot, covering by standing and mumbling something about needing some fresh air. He’d vaguely heard Sue making some comment about her wards “delicate health”, and had covered a bitter sort of laugh. Wonderful. Now, in addition to being viewed as Karofsky’s lapdog, he’d also be painted as an invalid to some of the wealthiest and most prominent people on the ship. Fine. Perfect. Just what he’d needed.

The fresh air hadn’t done much to soothe his frazzled nerves, or cool the blush of shame creeping up his neck, flaming at his face and ears. He’d leaned against the railing on the first-class deck, trying to breathe deep and slow, trying to avoid bursting into tears or kicking something. The afternoon sun was warm on his back, and the chatter of the third-class children, scurrying around below him, was a pleasant sort of din. After a moment, he’d even chanced a glance downwards.

No sooner had his eyes locked with someone’s, giving him a startling sense of electricity coursing down his spine and pooling in his stomach, and of unflinching captivation and of being seen for the first time in his life and would you call that color brown or gold? when David’s familiar hand was coming down on his shoulder, berating him with lowly-hissed words about “intense disappointment” and “stop acting like a child”. And then Kurt was back in his room, scarcely for a moment, it seemed, before he was whisked off to another dinner.

Dinners and parties and benefits and soirees. It never ended. It went on and on, the looks and the whispers and the small talk and the sense of being surrounded by smiling faces without emotions, of being just another puppet in this elaborate dance to the death. Kurt felt suddenly, sitting between Karofsky and Sue, eyes wide and blank and staring straight ahead, that he could stand up and scream at the top of his lungs and nobody would hear him. Nobody would even look up.

Ms. Beiste was talking to him now, asking something, probably inquiring after his delicate health. It almost made him want to laugh, the absurdity of it -- no, no, I’m quite fine, physically. My future brother-in-law is making my life a living hell and I’m doomed to live the rest of my days trapped between screaming and laughing at the absurdity of it all and nobody in this goddamn room seems to notice, but my health is truly splendid.

The chair made an audible sound as it was pushed back, legs dragging against the thick carpet of the dining room. Kurt’s hands were clutching the edge of the table so hard he could feel the smooth wood digging into his palms, as he addressed a request to leave to someone -- anyone, whoever was highest-ranking here, whoever would say yes -- and turned before receiving any actual reply. He had to get out. He had to go, had to get away before the ceiling caved in and the walls closed around him and he was crushed by the weight of who he’d become and what he was becoming.

The suit jacket was shed, perhaps given to a steward, perhaps tossed on the ground. The tie was next, the shirtsleeves unbuttoned, cufflinks scattering to the ground, glinting gold and diamond against the hardwood floor. Kurt’s hands were raked through his perfect hair, sending it pointing up in all different directions, shoes scuffing and squealing against the floor as he started to walk briskly, skidded to a halt, turned and walked the other way. Where he was going didn’t matter. What mattered was that he went, and went and went, perhaps until there was no longer opulence and beauty under his feet, until there was nothing but sky and air and water. Perhaps until he could outrun himself.

He broke into a run.