Kurt froze at the voice, hands halted halfway to the buttons of his jacket. Then he sighed, heavily, his shoulders slumping a little. So much for being stealthy. He’d hoped to sneak in and out of his room without being intercepted, and potentially be able to go out on the deck for some fresh air. After all, he had the tendency to run into a certain someone while wandering around the ship on his own.

But that wasn’t in the cards for his Sunday morning, so it seemed. Using her exceptionally keen, almost bat-like hearing, Sue had heard him silently changing out of his dressing gown -- which was splattered with eggs and jam from David’s temper tantrum at breakfast -- into his suit, and was now standing in his doorway, arms crossed. Her own dressing gown was significantly dingier than Kurt’s, and the threadbare neckline was a little too low for comfort. But she didn’t seem to notice, coming into the room and letting the door swing shut behind her.

“Heard you had a little lover’s spat at breakfast this morning,” she commented, sitting down on Kurt’s bed and reaching over to rummage in the bedside table for his rarely-used cigarette case. Used to Sue’s habitual disregard for privacy, Kurt turned back to the mirror and finished buttoning his jacket, ignoring the comment -- and the nickname, for that matter. Sue only called him by his real name if the occasion was deathly serious.

“Kurt.”

Which apparently it was. Sighing heavily and smoothing the lapels of the heavy silk garment, Kurt shifted until he could see his guardian in the mirror. “Yes, we had a bit of a...disagreement. It’s really none of your business.”

“I find it both cute and idiotic that you think you have any secrets from me.” Standing, with a cigarette in one hand and three more tucked in her pocket, Sue wandered over and plucked Kurt’s tie off the vanity. “Listen, I don’t like Meathead McSweatyhands any more than you do. He smells like perspiration and sexual frustration, two things I gave up in my twenties.” Then she paused, one of her long, ruby-red nails scratching absently at a loose thread in the tie. “But only a complete idiot would get on his bad side right now.”

“I appreciate your concern, but, like I said, it’s none of--” Kurt had been speaking and reaching for the tie at the same time, but he stopped abruptly as Sue’s free hand suddenly flashed out, grabbing his wrist painfully tight and forcing him to make eye contact.

“Cut the bullshit, lady face,” she gritted out, lips pressed together to hold her cigarette in place, eyes the same cold, hard blue he was so used to. Looking at her, in her ill-fitting silk dressing gown, with her short-cropped hair and the deep creases around her eyes and mouth, Kurt could hardly believe that this woman had been his only family in the world for two years. “You’re one bitchfit away from being thrown off this damn ship, and you know damn well we can’t afford that right now. There’s no money left.”

“You act like this is something I don’t know,” Kurt hissed back, wrenching his wrist away and making a grab for the tie. “Which is impossible, because you remind me at least once a day.”

Sue let him grab the length of silk, watching him try to tie it with shaking hands, her arms crossed tightly. “Then you’d better start acting like the dirt poor unemployable kid you are,” she said, bluntly. The words weren’t an insult, they were the flat, honest truth -- and Kurt knew it. He let his hands drop, letting the tie hang around his neck, staring blankly at his reflection. Sue sighed, rolling her eyes, then stepping forward to tie the tie. “And that means you smile nice and pretty, you lie back and think of England when you’ve got to -- and you don’t see that son-of-a-leprechaun again.”

Blaine. Of course. Everything came back to Blaine. However, unlike when Dave had forbidden him to see the third-class boy again, Kurt let his disappointment show, whole body slumping forward, mouth turning down in something suspiciously like a pout. Sue tightened the tie with a little more force than was strictly necessary, scowling at her ward. “No whining. Unless you want to be doing that lying-back-and-thinking-of-England thing as a career.”

“Those are my choices? David’s pet or streetwalker?” Kurt asked, flatly, hating how his voice trembled a little at the end of his sentence.

“Life isn’t fair when you’ve got no cash, kiddo.” There was something almost sympathetic in Sue’s face, but it vanished quickly. She patted Kurt a bit awkwardly on the shoulder, then turned to leave. “We’ve got Mass in half an hour. I think we’ll get lynched if we skip out.”

“...Sue?” The tremor in his voice was worse, as Kurt slowly sank down to sit in the chair drawn up to the vanity, staring at his reflection again, without really seeing it. His guardian halted in the doorway, then glanced back, eyebrows arched expectantly. He swallowed hard, looking up to meet her eyes in the mirror. “Why did you take me in?”

There was a pause, then a bit of a wry half-smile. “For your money, of course.” Then, seeing how Kurt’s shoulders slumped even more, if possible, Sue looked around -- as if someone would be watching -- then added, “And because you used to have spirit. You reminded me of me.”

Kurt echoed the half-smile, looking down at his assortment of bottles and vials, absently rearranging them. “Used to?” he repeated, softly.

Sue laughed, entirely without humor. “Don’t feel too bad about it. Neither of us can afford spirit anymore.” Then she was gone, leaving Kurt to pull on his shoes and straighten his clothes and seal up the cracks in the armor that had kept him protected from feeling for so long -- cracks Blaine had made. It was over. There was no reason for them to keep seeing one another, no reason for him to torture himself like this. Out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.

And, hopefully, out of heart too.

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

Two decks down -- and as good as half a world away -- Blaine had had a much better morning. He’d woken up bright and early, (which annoyed Pavarotti to no end) hopped out of his bunk (which had annoyed their roommates) and gone out to the deck for an early stroll.

No, that was a lie. He’d gone out with eyes and ears alert for any trace of Kurt -- the chestnut brown of his hair catching the light, the sound of his high, clear voice, a trace of his cologne, carried on the wind. Anything. Blaine had lived eighteen years without knowing Kurt Hummel-Sylvester existed, but now the idea of going any longer without talking or looking at him seemed impossible.

And yet, try as he might, Blaine could not find him. Even after looking up and down both sides of the deck, bow to stern, he’d found no trace of the boy who occupied every bit of his waking thoughts -- and quite a few of his sleeping ones. He couldn’t even find any of the high-class folks from the dinner the night before, so there was no chance of asking one of them. It was like everyone who could afford to change their socks between brunch and tea had disappeared.

Blaine had stopped, leaning against a railing and frowning, wondering if he could somehow manage to sneak into the first-class staterooms and figure out where Kurt was -- when he suddenly heard a loud, clear sound. It took him a moment, but he finally recognized what it was.

“Bells.” Blaine grinned, wide and relieved, then took off towards the sound. Of course. It was Sunday, after all, and if there was one thing Blaine had learned the night before, it was that the wealthy made a point of showing everyone how devout they were. Kurt and his traveling companions -- as well as everyone else rich on the ship -- were probably standing and singing hymns, led by Captain Figgins.

Fortunately for Blaine’s sleuthing endeavors, by the time the bells went silent, he was close enough to hear the sound of several dozen people singing something dreary and monotone. He made a face as he hopped down a flight of stairs and crossed a wide marble floor. Some of the hymns he’d heard were well and truly spectacular things -- fire and brimstone and all of that. Why were all of them sung to such a droning, boring tune?

By now he was close enough to see through the glass door, into the chapel. The captain was standing at the front, flanked by Mr. Schuester, the builder, and the owner and White Star representative, Bryan Ryan. The wealthy and titled were lined up, holding their hymnals and dutifully singing -- or at least pretending to. Blaine frowned a little, scanning the worshippers -- there. Standing between his guardian and that dumb Karofsky guy, looking significantly more put-together than he had last night.

“Kurt.” The look on Blaine’s face was one of relief, almost. All night long, he’d lain awake, envisioning the flawless features, remembering how Kurt looked when he smile, laughed, when he sang along to the songs without knowing the words. But nothing his imagination had conjured up was anything close to the original. And even standing as far away as he was, Blaine could hear Kurt’s high, pure, angelic voice, soaring above the other’s, turning the monotone words into something breathtaking.

Blaine stepped forward, intending to get Kurt’s attention, then wait until he could slip away. They had to talk, had to make plans, had to figure out a way to see each other again. Blaine wasn’t sure what it was -- sleep-deprivation, insanity, something else he couldn’t quite name yet -- but he knew that he needed to be near the other boy. If he wasn’t, he didn’t know what he’d do.

However, as soon as he made a grab for the door handle, the two stewards, one on either side, frowned and stepped forward. “I’m sorry, lad, but you cannot go in there," one said, firmly. “The first class is having Mass. I’m sure there’s some sort of similar ceremony in steerage.”

Blaine frowned, peering closer at the steward who’d spoken, then grinning, reassuringly. He recognized the man -- he’d served Blaine three or four helpings of roast lamb the night before. “Hey, look, I just need to talk to someone, okay? I promise I won’t disturb the service.”

The steward frowned, without a hint of recognition in his face. “I’m sorry, but you need to return to your part of the ship,” he said, firmly.

Drawing back a little, Blaine looked down at himself, not sure why the two men were looking at him like that -- like he was something on the bottom of their shoe. Then he realized why. He was back in his normal clothes, stained and worn shirt, dirty pants, suspenders held together with safety pins and luck. “Uh, I was here last night. For dinner? I ate almost an entire sheep?”

Nothing. The stewards were still frowning, and the bigger one was rolling up his sleeves, like he meant to throw Blaine out, once and for all. Holding up his hands defensively, Blaine said, almost pleadingly, “I know I look different without the suit, but I swear -- I swear, I just need to talk to Kurt, just for a second. I know he’ll want to talk to me, please--”

“Problem?” The voice, low and smooth, came from the half-opened door. The two stewards and Blaine turned to see Karofsky’s manservant, Azimio, poking his head out.

Blaine gave a relieved smile, gesturing at the man. “See, he’ll tell you, he was there.”

The stewards gave Azimio an expectant look. But, face never altering from the expression of mild annoyance, he stepped forward, fishing in his pocket. “Mr. Karofsky and his traveling companions are very grateful for all your help. But this is becoming inappropriate. You need to leave.” Then, when Blaine merely stared at him in disbelief, Azimio withdrew his hand, showing the two ten-pound notes in his hand. “I understand if you feel you haven’t been adequately compensated...”

“I don’t want your money,” Blaine shot back, eyes narrowing. The door was closed now, the hymn drawing to an end, but he could still hear Kurt’s voice, could still see him -- tall and pale and perfect, standing there, with no knowledge of what was going on. “Please. Please, I just need to talk to him--”

“Gentlemen.” Azimio handed one note to each of the stewards, then gestured at Blaine. “Please see to it that Mr. Anderson finds his way back to steerage.” He paused, then gave a slow, smug smirk. “And stays there.”

“Kurt!” In a last, desperate effort, as firm hands grabbed ahold of his arms, Blaine called out the name, willing his voice to be heard, praying that the wide blue eyes would turn towards him, would see. But Azimio was already back inside, and the door was swinging shut, and Kurt didn’t have a clue.

With a helpless sigh, Blaine went limp in the stewards’s hands. Fine. That had failed. But there was no way in hell he was giving up. He was going to see Kurt again, before the ship docked.

One way or another.