David Karofsky wasn’t what you would call a “gentle” man. He was prone to fits of temper, slamming his fists against walls, using his general height and breadth to intimidate people into doing what he wanted them to do. But he was in rare form, there on the deck of the ship, smoking jacket still on, tie askew. He was striding back and forth, alternating between yelling at crewmen to “check the damn railguards and see if they’re doing their damn job”, yelling at the master-at-arms about suing for faulty protective railings and yelling at his perpetually present manservant, Azimio, to carry out consequences for these oversights.

Oh, and yelling at Blaine. There was a good deal of yelling at Blaine Anderson going on. To his credit, the young man hadn’t protested a bit while being roughly manhandled to his feet and handcuffed by a few crew members. He hadn’t said a word in his defense when Sue, David, Azimio and a well-intentioned, but inept Mr. Tanaka -- a brandy-drinking buddy, no doubt -- had come rushing out from their warm, comfortable rooms to investigate. Even now, with Dave up in his face, demanding an explanation for this behavior, Blaine wasn’t flinching or reacting. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at Dave. In fact, he was looking at Kurt.

In fact, he hadn’t stopped looking at Kurt.

“What made you think you had the right to put your hands on him?” David was demanding, finger jabbing into Blaine’s chest, hard. No doubt the majority of those present saw this as a foiled mugging, a third-class passenger attempting to make a fool of and/or steal an easy dime from a rich young gentleman. However, under the vague impression that Kurt’s “condition” was not only communicable, but irresistible -- hadn’t it affected his own self? -- David no doubt saw other motives for the compromising position Kurt and Blaine had been found in.

The look on Dave’s face was clearly -- to Kurt, at least -- possessiveness mixed with jealousy. A lesser person, with their heads fogged up by fancies of romance, might have found that flattering. But Kurt had long since ceased to associate David with romance. So he stood, shrugging away from Sue’s warning smack and stepping past Mr. Tanaka.

Karofsky didn‘t seem to notice, continuing to rant, even going so far as to reach up and grab Blaine‘s face, turning it forcefully to make eye contact and snarling, “Look at me when I’m talking to you, you piece of--”

“Dave.” Kurt drew the blanket tighter around himself, unconsciously, both due to the blazing look David turned on him, and due to the fact that he was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Blaine now. They were so close he could smell him, the scent of his skin, his hair, along with the scent of cheap soap and pencil dust and something wild and woodsy he couldn’t quite define...

Clearing his throat and plastering on his best winning smile, Kurt ignored the sudden thudding of his heart against his ribs and kept his attention on David. “This is all a horrible misunderstanding,” he said sweetly. “Mr. Anderson here is no villain at all. In fact, he’s a hero.”

“A hero?” Mr. Tanaka, uninvited and clearly only here to chuckle over Sue’s garishly printed dressing gown, stepped forward, brandy in hand. “What do you mean, my dear boy?”

Resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose in disgust, Kurt smiled innocently, gesturing towards the railing he had recently been on the other side of. “He saved my life. You see, after I went out for...some air,” this was said with a hasty look at Sue, who had been present for his frantic departure from the dining room. Sue had somehow managed to purloin the brandy and was swigging from it without appearing to take any more interest in the proceedings. Breathing a sigh of relief, Kurt concluded, “I went to take a look at the stars.”

“And you...slipped?” David asked, slowly, an unreadable expression on his face. Either he was trying to feed Kurt the lines that would dissolve the suspicion, or he didn’t believe the story. Possibly both.

“Yeee-ees...” Kurt said, slowly, looking over at the railing, briefly. No, there wasn’t any possible way someone leaning casually against the bars would end up falling over them. Clearing his throat frantically, he added, “A-And then I was leaning over to look at...at the propeller things?” He waved one hand around, attempting to mimic the spinning motion of the propellers, and saw Mr. Tanaka chuckle in amusement. That made him flush in irritation, but better those in power saw him as a flighty, silly young man, than one prone to gallivanting with rakish third-class boys.

Rakish and silent third-class boys. Blaine still hadn’t spoken up once, not even when Kurt turned to look at him, offering that brilliantly fake smile. “And I slipped then, and I would’ve been sleeping with the fishes as we speak, except Mr. Anderson was there to grab me. We...we must’ve fallen off-balance when he pulled me back up. That’s all.” He tore his eyes away from the sedate, fixed gaze and laughed, low and somewhat awkwardly. “Stupid story, isn’t it? No need whatsoever for all this fuss.”

“...the propellers,” David repeated, slowly. Then blinking a couple times and looking like he was just waking up, he offered a half-smile of his own, setting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder and subtly drawing him away from Blaine. “He was looking at the propellers and he slipped.”

The master-at-arms frowned a little, pulling Blaine to face him and breaking the intent look the young man had been focusing on Kurt. “Was that what happened?” he asked, shortly.

Blaine’s brows -- which were unusually pointed, Kurt found himself noting, for once not shuddering under David’s hand -- furrowed a little, and he glanced briefly at Kurt. Swallowing hard, the first-class boy pressed his lips together. He could almost feel David’s rage coiling, ready to explode, and he didn’t want this to end with anyone being thrown into the brig. If the Titanic even had a brig. So he gave Blaine his most earnest, pleading look, mouthing a word -- Please.

“...yeah, pretty much that,” Blaine said, flatly, his tone not at all the nuanced, cheery, almost teasing one Kurt had heard before.

“Well then, he’s a hero after all,” Mr. Tanaka said, with the air of someone in charge. “What say we get inside where it’s warm and finish our brandies, hm? ...ah, and get new ones, perhaps, Ms. Sylvester,” he added with a chuckle, as Sue polished off the rest of the brandy and handed him the empty glass. “Won’t you join us, Mr. Hummel?”

“Kurt’s going to bed,” David interrupted before Kurt could even open his mouth to reply. Ignoring the mulish look, hand tightening on the slim shoulder, Dave turned and started to steer Kurt away from the master-at-arms -- and Blaine.

“...perhaps a little something, for the, uh...the “hero”?” Mr. Tanaka prompted with a chuckle, after a beat.

Kurt had to physically hold his breath to keep from wincing in pain as David’s hand impossibly clutched his shoulder even tighter. A glance upwards proved that Karofsky was considerably less adept at hiding his emotions. His face was a mask of annoyance, fury and -- and jealousy, still. Could he somehow have seen the sparks, the shudder that ran down Kurt’s spine every time he caught Blaine’s glance?

“...a twenty should do it, Azimio,” Dave said, in a strangled voice, after a moment.

Perhaps out of annoyance, perhaps just wanting to see how far he could push David, Kurt scoffed and pulled away from his hand. “Is that how much my life is worth, then?” he asked, loftily, drawing himself up to his full height, which was more than adequate enough to look coldly into David’s eyes. “That’s good to know. I’ll be sure to mention that to Brittany, when we reach America. She’ll be happy to hear how highly her guardian prizes her new husband.”

The awkward laugh came easier this time, as Dave turned, folding his hands tightly together, and strode to stand in front of Blaine. “My ward’s fiance is displeased with me, and that will never do, Mr...” He trailed off, arching his eyebrows, prompting.

Blaine was rubbing his wrists, newly freed from the handcuffs, and he looked very much like he didn’t think much of David’s apparently forgetfulness. But he finally replied, shortly, “Anderson.”

“Mr. Anderson. I’d like to invite you to dinner, tomorrow night. As a token of my -- our gratitude.” Karofsky nodded, slightly, satisfied that he’d extended his good will above and beyond what was expected.

The fact that Blaine actually thought about it, pulling his lips into a pout and tilting his head to one side, brought a bit of the old tension back to Karofsky’s shoulders. But, finally, with a less-than-subtle glance at Kurt, Blaine shrugged. “Why not? Count me in.”

Dave nodded again, more curtly this time, then turned and started ushering his traveling party -- and Mr. Tanaka, eager to return to his brandy -- back into the first-class rooms. Kurt was pushed along, and he went, as willingly as could be expected, not daring to spare so much as a glance backwards. Besides, he’d see Mr. Anderson -- Blaine -- soon enough.

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

Pav’s going to be mad he missed this. Bizarrely, that was Blaine’s first thought, standing on the deck, vest and jacket folded and forgotten over one arm, socked feet absently tapping against the boards. He didn’t glance away until the little group of high-class folks disappeared around a corner. Then he sighed, softly, almost regretfully, and looked around for his boots.

“Looking for these?” Azimio, the tall, silent, imposing manservant held out the shoes with an unreadable look. Blaine nodded his head slightly, in thanks, taking the boots and sitting down right on the deck to tug them on. “It’s funny,” Azimio remarked, after a moment, making Blaine give a bit of a start -- he’d thought he was alone.

“...what is?” the young man asked, finally, guessing that he was expected to reply, but really wanting nothing more than to get back downstairs, jump on Pavarotti to wake him up and tell him this whole crazy, wonderful, mixed-up story.

Azimio shrugged, vaguely, gesturing at Blaine’s boots. “The young gentleman slipped, right? All of a sudden?”

Slowly standing back up and pulling his vest and jacket on -- not that it mattered, as he was going below just as soon as he figured out what this guy was on about -- Blaine nodded. “That’s what he said,” he added, neutrally.

A chuckle and a casual, hands-in-pockets stance was his answer, the words only coming as Azimio walked away. “It’s funny then, how you managed to get your shoes and vest and jacket off in time to save him,” he called, over his shoulder.

He was gone inside before Blaine could react, his face turning a shade paler. So. It was that obvious, was it? Everyone could see, at first glance, the way the first-class boy had captivated him, how even now, as he turned and returned to the lower decks, the name thrummed in his very being -- Kurt, Kurt, Kurt.

Blaine exhaled, shortly, turning his jacket collar up and pushing open the door that led to the stairs. Well, so what if it was obvious? Nobody would be stupid -- or brave -- enough to mention it. It wasn’t like he was going to see Kurt ever again --

Dinner. Blaine froze, halfway between steps, hands braced on the railing, holding himself up and absently swinging back and forth. He’d been invited to dinner, that was right. Dinner with the hoity-toity, the hoi polloi, the other-things-that-begin-with-“hoi”. Dinner with Kurt.

With a grin, Blaine hopped over the last four or so steps, landing with a thud and a grunt that had several people poking their heads out of their cabins and swearing at him in a variety of languages. He didn’t care, nodding cordially at them and all but skipping back to his own room.

Now. What was he going to wear?

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

The knock was a formality and they both knew it.

“Come in,” Kurt said, after only a moment of hesitation. He was on David’s bad side, which was never a very pleasant place to be, as the forming bruise on his shoulder bore testament to. It wasn’t wise to keep the other young man waiting. Nevertheless, he didn’t deign to grace David with so much as a glance away from his mirror.

Dave lingered in the doorway for a moment, one arm braced against it, the other hand curled around a large velvet box. He was quiet, at least, for the moment -- that meant he wasn’t overwhelmingly enraged about what had happened up on deck. So Kurt continued his nightly skin care regime, the only ritual he performed with almost religious fervor. It wasn’t until he glanced up and met Karofsky’s eyes in the mirror that he started getting uncomfortable. “...did you need something?” he managed, in a voice that was far too faint for his liking.

Without answering, David slowly moved from the doorway, leaving the door slightly ajar and resting the hand not holding the box on the back of Kurt’s chair. Looking at him standing like that, looming like some great predatory animal, Kurt felt his stomach give a painful twist. He quickly covered by wiping his face off and pulling his dressing gown closer around himself.

“...this isn’t easy for me either, Kurt,” David said, finally, quietly. Kurt kept his head down, looking at his hands. He was perfectly away of what “this” was, but Dave obviously felt the need to continue. “In an ideal world, we wouldn’t have to deal with these...these...”

“Longings?” Kurt supplied, softly, fingers twisting together in spite of himself, a nervous habit he’d formed to curb another, even less flattering anxious habit -- nail-biting.

Dave shrugged a little, reaching out and moving a few of the things on Kurt’s desk -- it was a vanity, they both knew it was a vanity, but propriety insisted they call it a “desk” -- and setting down the velvet box. “If you’d like to call it that, sure,” he said, pretending to ignore how Kurt immediately reached out and rearranged his things.

Kurt shrugged likewise, focused on making sure all the little glass bottles and vials of this and that were perfectly located. The fact was that “longings” wasn’t the right word at all, except as a very general term for both of their inclinations. The cold, honest truth was that Kurt was not and had never been attracted to women. And, despite his more impressive history of courtship, neither was David.

The difference was that Kurt wasn’t attracted to David either.

But that really didn’t matter, did it? He wasn’t the one in control here, after all. Exhaling, slowly, trying to quell the ever-present panic, Kurt almost missed David’s gesture towards the velvet box, as well as his soft command -- “Open it.”

Unable to quite resist the allure of an unopened gift, Kurt complied -- and had to gasp a little, in shock, at what rested inside. An enormous blue gem, almost the size of an egg, on a diamond-studded chain rested inside, looking deceptively delicate on the crushed velvet inside. In spite of himself, Kurt reached out, fingering the chain, watching the huge jewel catch the light.

“It’s a diamond. From France, I think. Belonged to kings or something, can’t remember who, exactly.” David nodded, proudly, then reached out to close the case again. “I thought you could give it to Miss Pierce, when we reach the United States. She’s easily won over by sparkly things.” He chuckled, sliding the case away, then carefully kneeling down by Kurt’s chair. “She’ll love you the minute you hand it over.”

Kurt’s hand was still outstretched, still feeling the iciness of the necklace under his fingertips. It was beautiful, yes, overwhelmingly so. But it was also cold, cold as the ocean surrounding them, and just as unfeeling. For a moment he wondered, wryly, if the jewel was so very different than he was.

Unintentionally confirming this, Dave leaned over, hand stealing along the back of the chair, and said in a low voice, much too close to Kurt’s ear -- “You can pretend it’s yours, though. For the rest of the journey. Pretend it’s a gift to you, from me.”

Instinctively, prompted by the breath against his neck and the overwhelming there-ness of Karofsky, Kurt shuddered a little, turning away. There was an awful moment of silence, then a soft sigh, and suddenly the chair was being turned, away from the mirror, so it faced David. He was still down on his knees, nowhere near his usual size, yet he was still as overpowering as ever, even as he pleaded -- “I don’t want you to act like that, Kurt. I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to help us both. This...this way we feel, the things we want, they can’t last forever, right? Working through them, giving into them temporarily, that’ll make them go away faster, I’m sure of it.”

Kurt’s hands were curled tightly on the arms of the chair, but they resisted only a little when David reached to grasp them, his tone still sickeningly fervent. “But I promise you -- I promise, that when they’re gone, when we no longer have to submit to them, I won’t abandon you. I’ll still take care of you, and Ms. Sylvester.” That weak attempt at a half-smile was back, cutting through Kurt’s wild, horrified thoughts of living the rest of his life with Karfosky no more than a step away. “We’ll be family then, after all.”

“...right.” What else could he say? David was clearly tired of talking, moving to stand, his hand traveling up Kurt’s arm to rest much more gently on his shoulder. Kurt shivered a little, finding that he much preferred the pain to this mockery of tenderness.

“Right. It’s late.” David reached out, pulling open the drawer of the desk/vanity and sliding the jewel case inside, his hand never leaving the place where Kurt’s neck and shoulder met, where his dressing gown had fallen away, exposing his bare skin. “To bed, then?”

“...what if it doesn’t go away?” The words were whispered, half an attempt to temporarily stop the movement of that hand anywhere else, half a genuine question. David did, indeed, stop, looking down at Kurt curiously.

With a thick, hard swallow and a glance upwards, out of eyes that were too tired to hide their despair, Kurt repeated, “What if this doesn’t go away? What if we always feel these...these longings?”

David shrugged, carelessly, moving away for a brief, merciful moment to close the door. “Then we continue as we are, making the best of it,” he replied, hanging his jacket up and stepping out of his shoes.

Kurt continued to stay where he was until the very last moment, the weight of those words, of his future settling in on him again. There was no possibly way that could sound better in the morning, like Blaine had said.

Blaine...

And like that, the words had a double meaning, a silver lining of a sorts. If the way Kurt felt about other men wasn’t just a temporary stage, a phase he had to get over, then the way Blaine had made him feel, hanging on the rail with their hands entwined wouldn’t go away either. It would stay, shining and secret, burning in his chest and drowning out everything else that was going on -- the click of the door locking, the prompting hand on his shoulder, the all-too-familiar, mechanical movements in this unwilling imitation of intimacy.

That perfect, blissful moment when hand and hand touched, when eye and eye met would stay as it was, overpowering the din of the rest of the world, the same way the marks where Blaine’s hands had gripped his arm ached stronger and sweeter than anything Karofsky could do to him.

The next day couldn’t come soon enough.