Shifting a little against the hard wooden slats, Blaine exhaled a puff of smoke, watching the salty air blow it away, obscuring the stars for a moment or two. The stars were a constant, staying essentially the same no matter where he was. They kept him grounded, reminded him that some things never changed. And after the overwhelming wave of emotions that had battered him at midday, and continued to crash through him, even now, Blaine needed to feel a little realistic.

He exhaled, reaching his free hand up to rub at his forehead, going through his list of reasoning once again. It was a first-class passenger. It was someone rich and wealthy and educated. It was someone he’d never be allowed to even look at, much less talk to or -- and this was something he’d kept in the back of his mind, secret and hidden -- touch. But most importantly of all:

It was another man.

Another boy, really, couldn’t be much past eighteen, for all his poise and grace. Blaine had gone through his share of romantic entanglements, with one barmaid or another, but it had been a mechanical sort of thing. Something he did so that he could talk about it later on with his friends. It hadn’t meant anything. In fact, as much as it shamed him to even think such a thing, he couldn’t even remember any of their names.

This was different. He could remember everything about the young man he’d stared at for less than a minute, standing there golden in the sunshine, looking like every secret, hidden, shameful desire Blaine had ever had, made flesh. He could remember the color of those eyes, and how they’d glanced over and made the world shudder on it’s axis, and he could remember the elegance in how the gaze was broken, how the strands of chestnut hair had fluttered and fallen down over a high brow from how quickly the other boy had looked away. Blaine was no artist, but he was certain that if he had his paper and pen right that second, he would capture every aspect of that stunning creature, or die trying.

He’d just settled back, closing his eyes and letting himself reimagine, just for a little bit, just because he was by himself, because he was fairly certain the moonless sky wouldn’t judge him -- when his reverie was interrupted. The squeaking, skidding, pounding sound of shoes against wood, a few surprised and indignant sounds, then quick, breathy, whimpering sobs, coming towards him and streaking past without even hesitating.

Blaine sat up immediately, in time to see the runner disappear up the steps, towards the stern of the ship. But it was enough time to see red-brown hair in disarray, and catch sight of the broad shoulders, caught in a desperate sort of panicky shudder, keeping back tears.

Not following wasn’t really an option as this point, was it?

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

The problem with running away on a ship is that you only have so far to run. After a few too-short minutes of pushing your lungs and legs to take you one more staggered step, you run into the railing at the stern and you can go no further. And then you’re faced with the unthinkable -- turn around and go back. Or you’re faced with the impossible -- keep going.

Doubled over, shuddering with sobs he didn’t even realize he was making, Kurt’s hands clutched at the cold metal rail, tightly, as if it would somehow keep him from having to go back to that stifling ballroom, with the stares and the whispers. The night air, scented overwhelmingly with salt, caressed his tear-streaked cheeks and ruffled his mussed hair, prompting him to open his eyes and look down.

And down. And down. And down, all the way to the foaming, churning sea, turned white by the propellers of the ship.

Kurt exhaled, slowly, hands uncurling for a moment, eyes widening and staring at the water. It was so big, deep and limitless and promising. You could drop anything in there, and there would be no sign left. It would be like the thing had never existed, had never altered the world around it, had never sat in a crowd of people and felt like they were drowning.

Drowning in reality couldn’t be much worse, could it? After all, what could be wrong with something Kurt welcomed with such readiness? For he was already lifting himself up, kicking out of his unwieldy, shiny shoes, so he could maneuver with ease in his socked feet, grabbing onto the railing and hoisting himself up, up and over.

The metal was slick, and his socks made it even more so as he slowly lowered himself over the other side, resting his toes parallel to where they’d been. A quick glance around the deck -- nobody, they were all safe inside, out of the cold that was making him shiver in his open-necked shirt -- and Kurt turned, carefully, holding firmly to the railing with both hands, facing out towards the sea.

Out here, with nothing between him and the water and the sky, the reality of what he was going -- or at least, attempting -- to do hit him suddenly, making his breath catch in his throat. He was going to jump. He was going to let go. He was going to die.

Kurt exhaled, shakily, wanting to reach up and wipe away the tears lingering on his face, but not wanting to let go of the railing. Not yet. Not just yet. Soon, though. Soon he’d let go and it’d all be over. Soon he’d let go and let himself drop into the sea, with nothing but a room full of things and angry people left. He’d be free.

He shut his eyes, tightly, summoning up the best memories he had. He might not believe in God, or any sort of afterlife, but he’d believed in his father. Burt Hummel had been the god in his life, and if there was any chance that remembering him meant they could be together again, after death, Kurt was going to fight for that chance.

Deep breath. Squeeze onto the railing. Let go in one...two...thr--

“Don’t.”

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

The young man hanging precariously from the railing startled at Blaine’s involuntary plea, knuckles whitening on the top bar as his socked feet slipped a little. Blaine drew in his breath sharply, stepping forward, hands outstretched, but the other boy had already recovered, snapping over his shoulder -- “No! Stay back!"

Blaine hastily retreated a step, hands held up in surrender. But his whole body lurched forward, instinctively, wanting to grab onto those pale, long-fingered hands, wanting to fling his arms around those shuddering shoulders and pull the young man back, out of danger. He settled for saying again, firmer, with just a note of pleading, “Don’t jump.”

“Stay away from me,” came the choked, tearful reply. “I mean it--” Blaine shifted forward, shoes scuffing on the wooden deck, and the other boy exhaled, sharply, turning around and glaring at him. “I mean it!” he all but growled, eyes wide and teary and blazing, his face tearstreaked. “Go away!"

“Hey,” Blaine said, soothingly, hands still held out, this time in a gesture of supplication. Even with his hair in disarray and his face pale and damp with tears, that brilliant, captivating beauty was still there, and it stole the words right from Blaine’s throat. He swallowed hard a couple times, glancing over at one of his outstretched hands, noting the cigarette still dangling from it, forgotten. “Hey, just relax, okay? I'm gonna just..." here he held up the cigarette, nodding at the railing. “...just throw this away, see?”

The other young man gave him a mistrustful, mulish sort of look, but pressed his lips together and said nothing. His hands were clenching and relaxing on the railing, and his whole body was shaking, either from the cold or fear or anger. Blaine couldn’t tell, not even when he stepped forward, cautiously, tossing the cigarette over the side of the ship, into the sea. Then, casually slipping his hands in his pockets, he stayed where he was, closer, but not close enough to touch.

Too close for comfort, though, obviously, because the brunette boy shifted a little, drawing his lower lip into his mouth and nibbling on it, somewhere between nervous and confused. Then he cleared his throat and turned back towards the ocean, voice somewhat subdued. “Now go...please."

“I can't just..." Blaine began, indignantly. He got another glare from those bright blue-green eyes, once again cutting him off, mid-sentence. He exhaled, slowly, turning and looking out at the water, feeling the chill April wind ruffle his hair. “I can't go and leave you here," he finished.

“Sure you can,” and the words were accompanied with a bitter laugh. “Go back and...and crawl into whatever little hole down there you came from and forget you ever saw me. Laugh about it to your buddies.” He gave a sigh, lifting his chin a little and watching the trail of foamy, churned-up water be swallowed up by the glassy sea. “Poor little rich boy,” he muttered, more to himself than Blaine, it seemed. But then he turned, face stony and set again, that perfect mask he’d had on earlier. “Go on, go.”

“Well, you see," Blaine said, conversationally, fixing his gaze somewhere to the left of the other boy’s face. Looking right at him was like looking at the sun. It made conversation impossible. “I honestly can't.”

The shift from emotionless to annoyed was almost tangible, accompanied by a furrowing right between the delicately arched eyebrows, and a stubborn, defiant lift of the chin. “If you don't leave right now I'll jump,” he threatened, shoulders squaring a little. “I swear to god I'll--”

“You won't,” Blaine interrupted, breezily, coming to lean on the railing.

For the first time, the other boy was speechless. Temporarily. “...excuse me?”

“You won't jump," Blaine repeated, looking over, his own face smooth and nearly serene now. Only the somewhat nervous tapping of his fingers against the railing belied his calm. If engaging the young man in a fight didn’t work, if it just made him angrier, if he slipped...

But it seemed to be working, judging by how the boy drew himself up again -- no small task for something hanging off the back of a ship -- and flat-out growled, “How do you know? You know nothing about me.”

Blaine shrugged a little, stepping back and casually peeling off his jacket. “Well...you would've by now,” he said, simply. The other boy was silent, eyes flickering to the jacket, as Blaine dropped it unceremoniously on the deck, followed by his vest. “Plus,” he added, in a conversational tone, “you seem like a nice guy.”

“...what's that got to do with anything." It was more statement than question, but a bit of the tension had gone out of the precariously perched boy’s arms and shoulders. But then, he might’ve just been distracted by Blaine’s careful untying of his heavy boots.

“Nice guys are usually polite to strangers,” Blaine explained, gesturing to himself and grinning a little -- “Like me.” That got two arched eyebrows, but at least that was better than being glared at. “And y'see, if you jump, well..." Blaine dropped his boots on the deck with a dull thud, setting his hands on his hips and giving a heavy sigh. “Well I'm just gonna have to jump in after you."

The first-class boy sighed, heavily, rolling his eyes, obviously unimpressed by Blaine‘s show of chivalry. “You don't have--"

Blaine held up a hand, holding his head high. “I insist. My natural sense of honor compels me.” The arched eyebrows were back, but there was a faint quirk about the perpetually pouting mouth that might have been a smile. Or at least the beginnings of one. Blaine smiled back, easily, openly, coming to lean on the railing again. “So..." he began, slowly, like the idea had just occurred to him. “Since I don't wanna jump, and you don't wanna be rude...how's about you come back over here, okay?”

A moment of hesitation. “...I-I..."

Sensing that he might be losing, once again fighting the urge to just grab this boy and pull him out of harms way, Blaine angled carefully towards him, holding out his hands, slightly. “Look, I'll even help you over. See?” He wiggled his fingers, invitingly, itching to reach out and enfold those long, pale, cold ones. “Easy as pie.”

“...please, just go.” This time it was a genuine plea, and the other boy looked away, shoulders shuddering again, wind whipping his hair around his face. “Please, pretend...pretend like you never saw me, like you were never here."

“I told you,” Blaine replied, gently. “I can't do that.”

There was no reply. The young man didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge him. His hands stayed still, gripping to the railing, like his whole body had turned to stone. Having meant what he said -- he couldn’t go, he couldn’t just forget about this, about him -- Blaine moved forward, gingerly, hand still outstretched.

“I'm not gonna say it can't be as bad as all that,” Blaine continued, softly. “Cause things are bad for poor and rich folks alike. But..." He hesitated only a moment before leaning over, reaching out so his hand was in the other boy’s line of vision. “I'll say it deserves another look?” A faint twitch, and then the boy was turning, slightly, looking first at the hand, then over his shoulder at Blaine, hopeless and lost and desperate. Blaine somehow managed to summon up a smile, to answer that heartbreaking look. “Maybe in the daylight, things'll look better.”

Another long, endless silence, wherein Blaine could hear the pounding of his heart, his thoughts racing frantically, wondering if he could somehow grab onto the other boy if he let go, if he would be able to forgive himself if he couldn’t. Then, with a shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, a faint smile lit up that stunning and sad face, and the young man whispered, “...okay."

“Okay,” Blaine repeated, his wan smile transforming into a bright, relieved one that he saw echoed, slightly, in the other’s face. “Okay. Uh, here, gimme your--"

Looking at this boy for the first time, Blaine had felt like he would never be able to breathe again. But when his warm palm first came in contact with the impossibly soft, elegant, icy-cold fingers, when they slid across his skin and closed tightly around his hand, when he felt the brush of them against his wrist and glanced up to find those eyes locked with his, he could almost feel the air leaving his lungs. He heard the other boy gasp, felt him hold on tightly, and his fingers curled tightly, thumb stroking once, almost caressingly, over the back of the snow-white hand.

“Ah,” he managed after who-knows-how-long, it could’ve been hours, days that he stood there, lost in grey-green-blue, smelling something soft and expensive, feeling the muscles and bones shift and tense as their hands clung together. “I'm Blaine,” he said -- gasped, more like, feeling like he’d been holding his breath. Then, laughing a little, self-consciously, “Anderson. Blaine Anderson. Uh. Hi.”

If that faint, wan smile before had been lovely, this boy’s face when he laughed was positively angelic. “Hi,” he said, eyes flickering a little -- taking in his face, Blaine realized, just the way his eyes had moved to memorize the reddened cheeks, the hues of gold synchronizing in eyes and hair as they caught the lamplight, the smooth curve of petal-pink lips. They curved even more, into a bigger smile, then there was another laugh and they were pressed together, before forming a name -- “Kurt Hummel-Sylvester.”

“Yeah?” Blaine chuckled a little, his buzzing mind not quite taking in the syllables as words. Notes of a song, more like, a song that was already sticking in his head -- KurtKurtKurtKurt. Then, recovering a little, suddenly aware that the boy -- Kurt, that was his name, Kurt something-whatever, Kurt, Kurt, Kurt -- had turned around, was gripping the railing with the hand that wasn’t still locked with his, Blaine managed to joke, “Might need you to spell that for me sometime.”

Another one of those soft, breathy, musical little chuckles was his reward for attempting humor, and Blaine felt encouraged enough to add, with a wink, “I can never remember if it's "sly" or "syl"."

Then, eyes roaming at will over Kurt’s face, more openly than he would’ve in any other place, Blaine’s voice went softer. “See? It's looking better already, isn't it.”

Kurt seemed to nod without really realizing it, then suddenly ducked his head, the red in his cheeks taking on a brighter shade as he bit at his lower lip again. “...I'm sorry. I'm not...usually like this..." he stammered, obviously trying to somehow smooth over any awkwardness.

“Well, I hope not,” Blaine said, gravely, with a squeeze of Kurt’s hand. “There are only so many fits of leaping-off-ships a person can survive.” His heart skittered, staccato, at the brief shy smile he got in response. Then, feeling Kurt’s hand shake, even caught tightly in his, Blaine looked around, then started to back up, carefully. He offered a reassuring smile, other hand already reaching for Kurt’s, still clinging to the railing. “Here, let me help you ov--”

Unfortunately, fancy socks, knitted as smooth as silk, and slippery railings didn’t mix. Kurt took a step up, more focused on Blaine’s offered hand than his feet and let go of the bar he’d been clinging to -- just as his foot slipped. His piercing scream was drowned out by the sickening thud of his body slamming against the ship, and Blaine’s strangled curse as he pitched forward, still clinging to Kurt’s other hand.

Breath knocked out of him by the railing, Blaine’s only thought was to hold onto the icy hand with both of his, heedless of the fingernails biting into his skin, of the panting, terrified sobs as Kurt scrambled to get his footing against the icy hull, his other hand clawing at the railing. Clumsy with panic, he kept slipping, the icy winds buffeting his body, his only lifeline the breathless Blaine.

Kurt let out a hoarse, pleading sob, looking up desperately and choking out, “Don’t let go, don’t let go, please, please don’t let go--”

Blaine would think about the irony of that statement later. He drew in a breath, ribs aching from slamming against the railing, and the exhale was Kurt’s name. “Kurt, Kurt, you're okay,” he managed, breathlessly, keeping up the soothing, murmuring string of words as he braced his feet and started to pull. Kurt was still panicky, but at least the momentum of his fall had stopped, and he was able to clutch onto the railing now. “You're okay, see? I've got you, I've got you right here,” Blaine continued to coo, almost, pulling again.

“I’m not letting you go." He accompanied this with a look down, firm and resolute. “I promise. Pull yourself up -- you can do it,” he said, sharply, as Kurt desperately shook his head, still clinging to the lowest bar of the railing, feet still uselessly trying to grip onto the ship. “You can do this, I know you can. Just..." A short, raspy breath, and Blaine heaved with his whole body. Kurt didn’t weigh a lot, but he was hanging from the end of a ship, dead weight at the end of Blaine’s arm. But he felt Kurt pull himself up a little, other hand quickly grabbing onto the next-highest bar of the railing.

It was bitterly cold, but Blaine was sweating, panting, letting go of Kurt’s hand in order to grab onto his wrist -- then his forearm -- then just above his elbow, hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. Then, as Kurt’s feet finally found purchase on the railing, Blaine lunged forward, locking his arms around Kurt’s heaving chest, face-to-face with him for a moment, finishing his sentence in a whisper. “Don't let go of me. Don't let go.”

Kurt’s tearstreaked face was inches away, close enough for Blaine to feel breath against his lips, close enough that the tip of Kurt’s nose brushed against his as the other boy let go of the rail and locked both arms around Blaine’s neck. And once again, for a fraction of an instant, the whole world shuddered and stilled, and there was nobody else on the ship, on the planet.

And then Kurt’s feet started to slip again, so he yelped and threw himself forward, and Blaine grunted and threw himself back, and they hit the deck in a tangle of limbs, Blaine on top, and the tearing of Kurt’s expensive shirt as Blaine grabbed it too tightly was drowned out by the indignant, enraged --

“What the devil is this?”