It was the hour of the day reserved for brunches -- according to Kurt, that is. Blaine had actually paused and asked “what’s a “brunch”?” when this was mentioned, and, after having it explained to him, had asked why there wasn’t a “lunner”, then. In fact, it was the hour that Kurt had been previously engaged to sit among the best of society present on the ship, and discuss the weather in exquisite detail.

However, he’d politely declined, citing lingering exhaustion from his frightful near-death experience the night before, and had made his way out to the deck. Once there, he’d happened to run into Blaine -- entirely by chance, of course -- and they were now strolling leisurely along the perimeter of the ship’s deck, discussing the weather in exquisite detail.

All right, so that wasn’t entirely true. Once the various cloud formations and relative heat of the sun had been thoroughly dissected and commented on by both parties, Kurt had immediately launched into a conversation about childhood -- Blaine’s childhood, to be more precise. The other young man had obligingly described what it had been like, growing up in Ohio, losing his parents in his early adolescence and making his way across the states, before embarking to Europe.

For almost a mile along the deck, Kurt had asked prompting questions, one after the other, hardly allowing Blaine time to catch his breath -- what was his native city like, where in Europe had he visited, what had he done, who had he met and, once Blaine had answered all of these questions and more, he’d blurted out yet another query about the weather.

By this time, Blaine had an amused look on his face, that left Kurt torn between blushing and wanting to punch him -- lightly, of course, just enough to keep him from looking so smug. He was well-aware how ridiculous he was behaving, practically reenacting the Spanish Inquisition on this young man who’d been nothing but kind to him. But something about the entire situation made him feel unsettled, flustered in a way he’d never been before. It wasn’t just that they were now walking along the first-class deck, and the entirety of Titanic society was watching them.

It was more the fact that, rather than looking at him like he was insane, Blaine was watching him like...like he was the most interesting, charming human being on the planet. Like he found Kurt’s endless barrage of questions almost adorable. Even more unsettling than that was how Kurt felt flattered, rather than offended.

So, in an effort to settle himself, he’d prompted Blaine yet again for more info, be it about the weather, the average yearly rainfall in Smalltownsname, Ohio (or where-ever it was he’d lived) or more about his young Italian friend, who’d given Kurt the most vexed of glances when he’d first tugged Blaine away. However, this time, Blaine paused, hands in his pockets, both those triangular eyebrows arched, and remarked, “You know me better than I know myself, by now. I think it’s your turn to tell me a little about you.”

“I think it’s not,” Kurt retorted, crossing his arms tightly, before remembering that this suit was silk and would wrinkle. With great effort, he moved his arms back to hang at his sides.

And Blaine laughed. He laughed, not a polite chuckle, like the ones Kurt was so used to giving and receiving. This was a laugh that scrunched up his entire face, that showed his teeth and was so mirthful that it seemed impossible that Blaine Anderson had ever been unhappy. “Ohhh, I see. It’s still interrogation time. Gotcha. Carry on.”

“I resent that remark,” Kurt shot back, somewhat offended now. “I’m simply trying to be polite and find out a little about my...about my rescuer.”

Still grinning and sauntering along the deck like he owned it, Blaine shook his head. “No, see, “polite” is asking how someone’s feeling and expecting an answer of “fine, and yourself?” What you’re being is nosy.”

If Kurt had looked any more hostile, his hair would‘ve stood on end and he would’ve started hissing. “You’re extremely rude. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Couple times, yeah.” Spinning on his toes and starting to walk backwards, so he could give another of those unnervingly bright grins at Kurt, Blaine cocked his head to one side. Kurt imagined he was trying to be endearing. Well, it wasn’t working. Not even a little bit. “Now, c’mon, let’s be honest. You didn’t venture all the way down to the dark, scary third-class deck to ask me whether I liked ice-skating or sledding better as a kid, did you?”

With a stiff sort of shrug, Kurt crossed his arms again, wrinkled silk be damned. “No, I suppose not,” he replied, with great chilliness. “I was intending to...to thank you.”

“Thank me?” The eyebrows were up again. Everything about Blaine’s face was so maddeningly expressive. It was exhausting to look at. “For what?”

“For...for you know.” Kurt gestured vaguely towards the stern of the ship, shivering a little in spite of himself. In the bright, warm sunshine of the morning, that moment when he’d stood, hanging off the end of the Titanic, staring at the icy, black water seemed a million years ago. “Saving my life?”

Blaine shrugged a shoulder, walking over to lean on the railing, apparently unaware of the two women in enormous hats who looked him up and down, wrinkled their noses and sidled away. “You saved your own life. I just helped you get back on solid ground.”

After only a moment’s hesitation, Kurt joined him, a safe distance away, of course, leaning against the railing and folding his hands together loosely. “Whatever you’d like to call it, I’m still...still grateful to you. For your aid and for not...well, for not saying anything to the others. If they had any idea what really happened...”

He trailed off, looking out at the water. The sun was glinting off the swells now, turning them a goldish color that made it look like the waves had been painted. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Despite the still-suffocating thoughts of his future, the idea of being underneath those tranquil waters made his stomach clench. “...you must think I’m some sort of...horribly spoiled child, hm?”

“Not really.” Blaine was suddenly much closer than he had been, mimicking Kurt’s position, hip bumping lightly against the first-class boy’s. Pretending to ignore how Kurt tensed and leaned away, Blaine kept his eyes out to sea. “Like I said, things can be bad for poor people and rich people. Sadness doesn’t pick and choose.” A moment of silence, then he turned, and the look of sympathy on his face was somehow harder to look at than the sunkissed waves. “I guess I’m just wondering what could be so awful that it’d make you want to give up.”

Kurt shrugged, again, still that stiff motion of his shoulders that suggested he wasn’t often at a loss for words. His hands were folded together tightly, knuckles whitening. “...everything,” he managed, after a moment, voice as strained as the muscles in his hands. “Everything about my
life. It’s...” He exhaled, lifting his chin, looking up towards the heavens in the common gesture of someone trying not to cry. “I-I’m trying to stay strong about it, but my entire life feels...feels like a living hell and nobody...nobody seems to notice.”

Blaine was quiet for a moment, absently examining his hands, darkened from the sun, roughened from hard work, so different from Kurt’s slender, soft, pale ones. And yet they’d fit together, like two puzzle pieces, like they’d been made to hold onto each other. He wondered, briefly, if Kurt remembered that, if Blaine’s touch would comfort him, or make him recoil. Finally, eyes falling on the wide, intricately carved golden band on Kurt’s left hand -- “Do you love her?”

It actually took Kurt a couple minutes to realize what Blaine was talking about, before he glanced down at the ring. An engagement ring, one he hadn’t picked out but was apparently ornate and heavy enough to match the no-doubt-enormous diamond adorning Ms. Pierce’s hand. He laughed, the sound cold and empty. “I’ve never met her. Not that it particularly matters. She’s hardly part of the problem. She’s just as trapped as I am, I suppose.”

There was a long, heavy pause, before Blaine asked, with the same plain candor he’d used many times before -- You won’t jump, for example -- “Do you love him?”

That threw Kurt for more of a loop, though he clearly knew exactly who Blaine was referring to. His face went stark white, then slowly reddened, eyes narrowing a little. “I-I beg your pardon?” he asked, hands curling together, tightly, again.

“Whats-his-name. David?” Blaine’s voice was casual, but there was a hint of something like jealousy in his eyes, and in the way he pressed his lips together. Which was entirely ridiculous. They barely knew each other, he didn’t know a thing about Kurt aside from his name -- which, by his own admission, he couldn’t even pronounce.

Besides, jealousy implied that he had some sort of claim, which he sure as hell didn’t, that much was certain. It was this, more than the question, that made Kurt draw himself up to his full height, jaw set, chin lifted. “That is a completely inappropriate question, Mr. Anders--”

“I see how he looks at you.” Blaine’s voice was quieter now, and his gaze, though no less even, held a note of sadness and -- possibly, just maybe -- sympathy. “And I can see how you act around him. Look, I’m not...not gonna judge, that isn’t my place, but--”

“That may be the most accurate thing you’ve said all day, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt interrupted, face flaming at how candid Blaine was being -- and at how right he was. “Listen, I don’t know how they do things in...in where-ever you are from --”

“Westerville,” Blaine prompted mildly.

Kurt waved a dismissive hand, a short, sharp gesture. “I don’t particularly care. But where I am from, there’s a certain way things are done. And one of the things that is not done, is such...such flippant and...and nonchalant discussion of...of any unnatural and abominable and...and untrue ideas you might have about my...escort and myself.” By now Kurt was red from his neck to his hairline, gesticulating wildly and well-aware that he was being stared at. So, exhaling sharply and holding out a hand for Blaine to shake, he reined in his embarrassment and annoyance. “I came here to thank you, and I have, so...so I’ll be going now.”

Blaine took the hand casually -- and there was another of those jolts, like electricity, shooting up Kurt’s spine, prompting his hand to curl around Blaine’s, an instinctive gesture. It was the most natural thing he’d ever done, holding this boy’s hand. It was like breathing.

“...you’ll be going, then?” Kurt gave a bit of a start, realizing that he’d been holding Blaine’s hand -- just holding, not shaking it even -- for several long moments. That annoying grin was back on the dark-haired boy’s face, and he looked very content, standing there, holding Kurt’s hand.

“Yes. Yes I will.” Kurt cleared his throat, then dropped Blaine’s hand, jamming both of his deep in the pockets of his exquisitely tailored pants. “I’m going, right now.” With a very un-gentlemanly series of muttered words, he turned on his heel and stalked away a few steps -- then turned and stalked back, pointing accusingly at Blaine. “I feel it best to inform you that, in addition to being rude, you’re also annoying.”

“Gotcha.” Blaine rocked back on his heels, smiling placidly at Kurt. “I’ll remember that.”

“See that you do.” All right, stalking away for good now, on his way to read or smoke cigars or nap or something, and to forget entirely about this maddening young man with the wicked grin and the bright eyes and -- no, walking back now. “No, I’m not going to leave. This is the first-class desk. I am first-class. You aren’t.” Kurt crossed his arms, lifting his chin again, daring Blaine to argue. “You can leave.”

Blaine crossed his arms as well, tilting his head to the side and pretending to consider. “I suppose I could, yeah. You’re full of good points today, Kurt.”

Kurt. Nobody addressed him so casually. Not Sue, not his society friends, rarely even David. And especially not Blaine Anderson, third-class passenger and first-class annoyance. Thrown off for a moment, Kurt just stood and gaped at Blaine, heedless of the other rich passengers slowly walking by, watching the two young men apparently engage in a sort of staring contest.

Finally, seizing on something that might make the perpetually calm and collected Blaine as disgruntled as he was, Kurt reached out, snatching the leather notebook out from under the other boy’s arm. “What is this, by the way?” he asked, coolly, fueled by the momentary look of shock on Blaine’s face. “Filthy pictures, I imagine. You’re positively shameless, Mr. Anderson.”

Blaine frowned a little, then shrugged, trailing after Kurt to sit in one of the lounge chairs set along the deck. “Not quite. You’re welcome to look, though.”

“I plan to.” With a smug, “I-win-so-there” look, Kurt sat gracefully on the edge of the chair, crossing one leg over the other and opening the book. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting -- perhaps some sort of European pin-up photographs, perhaps nothing more than a journal or list of sorts. What he definitely wasn’t expecting was --

“My music,” Blaine offered, smiling a little as Kurt gaped at the pages. Line after line of notes, painstakingly hand-drawn, in a surprisingly complex pattern. Kurt had been playing piano since he was a child, and he was fairly adept at sight-reading by now. He’d read and played music by the finest musicians in Europe, been to countless concerts -- and he was still stunned by these scribbled compositions of a young man who apparently couldn’t afford more than one vest.

“...it’s good,” Kurt said, finally, voice soft as he looked over the lines. It was hard to tell without an actual instrument there, but this particular song seemed like a slow, sweet sort of melody. Definitely not the sort of thing he would’ve imagined Blaine would write. Perhaps a drinking song or two, but not this. Turning the page, he noticed a penned inscription at the bottom. “Merci beaucoup, mon ami. Je vous aime, Rachelle,” he read off, eyebrows arching.

“Ah, yeah, I, uh...I wrote this one about this..cabaret singer in Paris. Rachelle -- Rachel, I called her, I’m no good at French pronunciations.” Blaine shrugged a little, running his fingers through his dark curls and making them stand up. “She liked it a lot. Wanted to sign it, just in case she ever became famous.”

“I see,” Kurt remarked, turning the page. “...I take it “Rachel’s Lullaby” is also written for her?” When Blaine just shrugged again, turning a little red -- just on the tips of his ears, as opposed to Kurt’s full-face manner of blushing -- Kurt chuckled, shaking his head. “I think you must’ve had some sort of love affair with her,” he said, only half-teasing.

“No, no, no,” Blaine said quickly -- a little too quickly, reaching out and turning the pages. “See, she had a beautiful voice. Plus she gave me a place to stay, so...it was the least I could do, write something for her to sing.” He laughed, sheepishly, once the pages were safely turned to “Untitled Titanic Song”. “No love affairs involved.”

“Ah.” Kurt smiled a little, unable to entirely hide how relieved he was.

...wait a second, relieved? Why was he relieved? Why did he care? Blaine could’ve dallied with half the women in France, it made no difference to him. But...all the same, he was glad he hadn’t. Clearing his throat, Kurt gestured at the Titanic song, the last one in the notebook, dated a couple days before -- the day the ship had embarked. “I imagine this one was inspired by the ship,” he stammered, a bit redundantly, turning and smiling nervously at Blaine.

Blaine had his chin propped in one hand, a little bit of a smile curling up the corner of his mouth. And that soft, gentle, almost affectionate look was back, the one that made it feel like Kurt‘s knees were made of jelly, and his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. “...with a few other inspirations, yeah,” Blaine said, after a moment.

“O-Oh.” Kurt cleared his throat, closing the notebook, much more gently than how he’d opened it. “Well. These are all...beautiful pieces of work. You’re very talented, Mr. Anderson.”

“...just Blaine’s fine.” He reached out, carefully taking his notebook back, handling it like it was something precious, something that would fly to pieces if held too tightly. “And thanks. I’m glad you liked them.”

Kurt nodded, a little awkwardly, folding his hands in his lap and absently mouthing the name to himself, trying it out on his tongue -- Blaine. Just Blaine. “...I’ve never met this...this Rachel friend of yours, but. I imagine I could picture what she’s like, just from the music you’ve written about her,” he offered, hesitantly, not sure why he felt the need to praise the compositions. Perhaps to make up for his earlier rudeness. Blaine obviously hadn’t been trying to offend, he was just honest. Candid. Real, even, in a way that Kurt wasn’t used to. “I-It’s a rare thing, being able to capture someone in a song. Being able to see them that well.”

“I guess that’s what I’m good at.” Tucking his notebook under one arm, Blaine stood, slowly. “Seeing people.”

Still sitting, Kurt rested his chin in his hand, peering up slowly at Blaine. Then, almost shyly, “Can you see me?”

The silence stretched out between them for a moment, heavy with possibility. Blaine could either say something trite and cliched, or laugh in Kurt’s face. And Kurt wouldn’t blame him if he did either -- it was sort of a ridiculous question.

As it turned out, Blaine did neither. He just grinned, the open and unguarded smile Kurt was sure he’d never get used to, and held out his hand. “I’m trying to, let’s say. Ready to walk again?”

Well, he wasn’t likely to get a much better answer than that, was he? Kurt laughed, softly, the most genuine laugh he’d given all day -- all week, even, perhaps longer. Then, only hesitating a moment before sliding his hand into Blaine’s -- “If you can somehow get me out of lunch as well as brunch, I’m happy to walk where-ever you want to go.”

“I’ll even help you miss lunner, how’s that?” Blaine teased, helping Kurt to his feet. Then he tucked the notebook back under his arm and started to walk again, this time in step with Kurt. “So, is it time for you to talk about yourself yet?”

“Not even close.”

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

“Oh, goodness, it’s getting late.”

They were up on the highest deck open to passengers, almost to the captain’s wheel, and Blaine was clearly enjoying himself. He was currently striking a pose, leaning against one of the four iconic smokestacks that the Titanic sported, grinning cheekily at every single well-dressed lady that passed. And, no matter how much he might want to, Kurt just couldn’t get mad at him, couldn’t do anything but stand with his hands in his pockets and snicker.

They’d been together for hours, sitting when they grew too tired of walking, walking again when sitting became boring. Eventually Kurt had deigned to divulge a few details about his life -- sticking to the pleasant things, the few good memories he had with his mother, the others about his father, tidbits about the secret lives of the rich and famous. Blaine clearly had no idea who or what Kurt was talking about half the time, but his attention never wavered. He listened to every story like it was the most thrilling tale he’d ever heard, grinning in all the right places, nodding sympathetically when the occasion called for it.

And as the hours slipped past, Kurt found that the ever-present brightness about Blaine was becoming less annoying and more...well, more charming, really. The dark-haired boy was so full of energy, so overflowing with zest for life. He bounced when he talked, eyebrows arching and furrowing and wiggling around so much that they looked like they were going to fly right off his face. He was a good two or three inches shorter than Kurt, despite being older, and he sometimes stood on tiptoe, so they could be eye-to-eye when he delivered a punchline, or a particularly important point in one of his stories. There was always this nagging thought in the back of Kurt’s mind, put there by years and years and years of constant conditioning, a thought that whispered He’s poor, he’s dirty, he’s uneducated and homeless. How can he truly be happy?

But he was. Blaine Anderson was the most joy-filled person Kurt had ever met, and it was with a bitter, wistful pang that he realized the late hour meant they would soon have to part.

Blaine, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice anything at all amiss, adjusting so he was leaning one hand against the smokestack, the other set on his hip, one ankle crossed over the other, as he wiggled his eyebrows at a pretty blonde in a yellow dress. “Waaaay past lunch, I’m guessing,” he said, with a grin. “What’d I tell you? When Blaine Anderson promises, Blaine Anderson delivers.”

“Well, when Kurt Hummel-Sylvester sees that it’s almost dusk, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester knows that he needs to go and get ready for dinner, if he doesn’t want to be cast out of society forever,” Kurt retorted, offering the offended yellow-garbed blonde an apologetic look.

With a frown, Blaine straightened, shaking his head at Kurt. “Don’t refer to yourself in the third person. It works for me, because I have a normal name. Yours is about sixteen syllables too long.” Then, before Kurt could protest, Blaine’s face lit up, and he reached out, grabbing the other boy’s hand -- not for the first time that day, either. “Hey, that’s a great idea.”

“What i--” Kurt began, but he was cut off by Blaine dragging him over to another part of the deck, this one overlooking the front of the ship. Standing there, they could see past the bow, to where the sun was setting in the west.

Blaine grinned, pointing with his free hand. “The first day on the ship, Pav and I stood right there, at the frontest bit, and said we could already see the Statue of Liberty. America, land of the free, home of the brave and all of that.”

Kurt waited for a moment, then slowly raised one eyebrow. “Are you trying to inspire patriotism in me, Mr. Anderson? Because I’ve only been in Europe for a decade or so. I haven’t entirely forgotten the national anthem.”

That got a laugh, then Blaine turned, grabbing Kurt’s other hand, holding both of them gently in his. “No, don’t you hear it? Statue of Liberty. Land of the free. Once you get to the States, you can get yourself kicked out of society all you want. Free country.”

It was hard to focus on this convoluted string of logic, especially with his hands being gripped as they were, but Kurt somehow managed to, licking his lips slowly, his mouth suddenly very dry. “England was a free country too. What’s going to be different about America?”

“I’m going to be there.” Apparently unaware that his words had effectively stolen any words right out of Kurt’s mouth, Blaine continued to beam brightly at the other boy. “I’ll show you all sorts of places. California, even -- ever been there? Ever been to the pier in Santa Monica? It’s incredible. The crowds, the carnivals, the people all laughing and shouting, the vendors trying to sell you all sorts of stuff you don’t need. We’ll eat all sorts of sugary stuff and ride that new roller coaster thing til we’re sick. Then we’ll ride horses bareback along the beach.”

Somewhere during this crazy, unlikely, wonderful speech, Kurt had gone from stunned to laughing, shaking his head slightly. But he looked up at Blaine, pretending for a moment -- just a moment, what could one moment hurt? -- that he was telling the truth, that they were really going to go to this magical place and do all these wonderful things. “Can you really picture me riding bareback, Blaine?”

“Well, it’ll take some practice, but you’ll be riding like a real man in no time.” That got a coldly arched eyebrow, and for the first time Blaine looked flustered, caught off-guard. “N-Not that you aren’t one now, but...but the last time you were in America, you were just a kid, right? Now you can get the whole grown-up experience.”

“Ahhh.” Kurt smiled, smugly, stepping a little closer. “Well. I am a fan of grown-up experiences...”

“--there you are.” It was an interesting phenomenon, really, how the sudden, sharp voice of his guardian could turn Kurt from smooth and almost flirtatious to straight-backed and tense, stepping away from Blaine and dropping his hands like they burned. Sue didn’t even pretend not to glare down at Kurt’s hands, which were now twisting together nervously, and neither did her companion, the Countess Pillsbury. However, the other lady present was less shy.

“We’ve been looking all over for you, kiddo,” Ms. Beiste, sporting a rather intimidating hat, gave a wide grin and patted -- well, “smacked” was more accurate -- Kurt on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “You’re just in time to hear me tell these swell ladies about the time I had a little too much of my Uncle Bobby’s bubbly and ate an entire chicken -- bones and all.”

“We’re going to dress for dinner. Right now,” Sue said, flatly, in a tone that clearly said she’d rather eat an entire chicken herself than hear Beiste’s story. Countess Pillsbury nodded timidly, with the wide doe-eyed look that made her so popular among the gentlemen. The ladies turned and started to sweep off, but Kurt cleared his throat, loudly, something he wouldn’t have dared do even a few days earlier.

“Sue, you remember Mr. Anderson,” he said, brightly, gesturing at Blaine. Surely Sue wasn’t uncouth enough that she’d ignore a clear invitation for introduction?

Surely she was. “As a matter of fact, I can’t remember ever seeing your elf-like friend before in my life,” Sue said, shortly, eyes half-lidded in a way that suggested she was contemplating sleeping through the impending conversation. “And I use “elf-like” in a context referring to height and level of whimsy only, as I’ve no clue to or interest in your magical powers,” she added, to Blaine, who just looked baffled.

Fortunately Beiste was there, all six feet of her, slinging her arm cheerily over Blaine’s shoulders and booming, “So, you’re the little guy who saved Kurt’s life, huh? You’ll have to tell us all about it at dinner tonight, won’t you?”

“Dinner,” Kurt repeated, brightening, even as Sue’s hand closed, iron-like around his upper arm. He’d almost forgotten about dinner. On the one hand, it promised to be exceptionally awkward, what with everyone who was anyone attending.

On the other, Blaine would be there.

Sue and the Countess had each claimed one of his arms, so all Kurt could manage was a quick “See you at dinner, then, Blaine” over his shoulder before being led away. But he could see Beiste, arm still firmly over Blaine’s shoulders and looking much like she was about to suffocate him with her bicep, leading the young man in the other direction and booming something about “can’t have you wearing those dingy duds to a swanky dinner. Let’s see if I’ve got something in my cabin”.

So, smiling a little and relaxing, Kurt let himself be swept along, to be wrestled into yet another silk suit.