Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On nights when the hum of engines below would send other men into a peaceful slumber, a nightmare visits Bojan.

It is always the same; Bojan is choking, arms flailing in and out of cold, black water. He tries to scream, to call for help, and his head is pulled back under. His face stings and his lungs burn as he kicks, disoriented, no longer knowing which way is up. The burning in his lungs grows stronger, until muscle memory forces him to inhale the crushing darkness that surrounds him.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

Bojan sits up so quickly, he nearly strikes his forehead against the bottom of the bunk above his own. He gulps down greedy lungfuls of air, only then realizing that he’d had his own fingers wrapped around his throat- he removes them, and places his hand over his heart instead, feeling it throw itself against his ribcage at rapid speed. 

The small lamp beside him is suddenly illuminated, scattering dim beams of warm light across the cabin. Bojan looks over to find his cabin mate staring at him. He opens his mouth, searching for some universal signal of apology, but comes up with nothing.

“You have those often?” The man asks, expression appearing more curious than sympathetic.

“Only at sea,” Bojan answers, relieved that the man speaks English. He grabs his handkerchief from the nightstand, using it to mop some sweat from his brow.

The man nods. “My father is the same. He would not come with me, though I had already paid for his ticket.” 

That would explain why they were the only two passengers in the cabin, as Bojan’s travel companion Jure had also needed to decline the voyage at the last minute to plan a family funeral. 

Bojan nods, finally managing to steady his breathing enough to introduce himself. “I apologize for waking you. My name is Bojan Cvjetićanin. I did not introduce myself earlier; I did not think that we spoke the same language.”

The man smiles, showing off slightly crooked teeth. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to know that we won’t spend this voyage in silence, after all. My name is Jere Pöyhönen.” 

"It's nice to meet you," Bojan says. Jere pulls a pocket watch out from under his pillow and observes the time.

"Have you ever seen a sunrise at sea, Bojan?"

Chapter Text

Nightmares typically linger around Bojan like a haze for a time after he wakes, but as he and Jere leave their cabin and set off for the third-class promenade, his anxiety has all but melted away. As the two men head down the long corridor that connects the third class spaces on either end of the ship, they talk how schoolboys might; excited and laughing, though trying to mind their volume so as to not wake other passengers. Bojan considers himself to be an agreeable, good-natured person, but he would have to admit that it had been some time since he’d gotten along with someone as instantly as he does with Jere. 

By the time the pair head up the third-class staircase, Bojan has learned that Jere hails from Helsinki, Finland, and has been learning English for a few years. He has an older brother who emigrated to Canada two years ago, and Jere will be traveling to meet him after the Titanic docks in New York. His brother has secured him a job, mining in a Canadian town with a climate similar to his home country’s. Bojan mostly listens for now, though sometimes aiding Jere when he struggles to come up with the English words for certain things. They turn it into a game of charades as they walk, Jere miming things out and Bojan spouting off guesses. 

All is dark and still when they reach the promenade deck, and both men go silent for a moment, taking in the sound of gentle waves and wind. Bojan draws his jacket a little tighter around himself, but Jere seems unfazed by the brisk breeze. He leads Bojan over to a set of benches in the middle of the deck, and they sit down, Bojan shuffling around for a minute as he can feel the cold wooden slats through his trouser legs.

“The sun comes up soon,” Jere reassures Bojan.

“And what if it doesn’t?” Bojan laughs. Jere just shakes his head and laughs too, breath puffing out in front of his face.

They sit there and enjoy the last twinkling stars, and, sure enough, the edge of the horizon begins to lighten. Jere excitedly points out the sliver of sun as it peeks over the water, reminding Bojan of a child seeing a puppy. He smiles, settling back onto the bench and enjoying every new colour in the sky as it appears. 

“What’s your favourite colour?” Bojan asks Jere, prompting the other man to look over.

“Green,” he nods, not giving it a second thought. “And what is yours?”

“Probably whatever all this is,” Bojan says, gesturing at the sky, the several shades of peach, gold, lilac and blue all caught together in a dance. “Thank you for bringing me to see it.”

Jere shrugs. “Thank you for waking us up in time,” he laughs.

Once the sun is up and the tips of their ears and noses are red and numb, the pair head back down the stairs.

“Breakfast soon,” says Jere.

“Good. I’m hungry. Which seating are you at?” Bojan asks. Jere holds up one finger in response. 

“Me too.” 

Jere nods. “Then we should stick together, yes?”

Breakfast turns out to be a much livelier affair than supper had been the night before. The April sun streaming through the portholes and the cheerful din of slightly groggy voices serve as a pleasant backdrop to what Bojan considers to be a rather fancy breakfast. On their way in, Bojan and Jere had each grabbed copies of the daily menu- to Jere’s delight, the White Star Line had provided some translated menus in a few different languages, including Finnish. 

Now, the two sit at a banquet-style table with several other young men, jackets and hats all hung up on hooks on the wall behind them. A tall, dark-haired steward sweeps on by and asks Bojan, Jere and the others what they’ll be taking from the menu this morning. Once the steward has received their orders, he disappears back to the galley as quickly as he’d come. 

“You like to learn some Finnish?” Jere asks Bojan, showing him his menu. “This word, here- kananmunat - is eggs.”

“Kananmunat …?” Bojan repeats slowly.

“Yes, yes, good,” Jere nods in encouragement before moving on to the next menu item. Some of their table mates eventually join in, trying to pronounce the Finnish words. 

“Good, good!” Jere laughs after teaching them the word for ham and having them all chant “kinkku!” in unison. “Very good.”

“You’re something of a ham yourself,” laughs one of the men across the table.

Jere raises his eyebrows and points to himself. “Me? Salami?”

“He means that you’re funny,” explains the man’s friend, smiling. “It’s a compliment.”

“Ah. Kiitos . Thank you,” says the Finn, holding his hand out. “My name is Jere Pöyhönen, it is nice to meet you.”

The man shakes Jere’s hand. “David Meilak- my friends call me Dav Jr. Pleased to meet you as well.” 

Introductions continue around the end of their table as they wait for their food, with Bojan and then Dav Jr’s two friends introducing themselves. They tell Bojan and Jere that they are from the British colony of Malta, heading to America to hopefully find work in printing.

Their steward returns with everyone’s meals on a large platter, and begins to dish them out. Bojan can hardly wait. His kananmunat and kinkku look delicious, and the rest of the plate is piled with fresh bread, butter, and marmalade. Jere had opted for a simpler breakfast of smoked herring, porridge and coffee. The men dig in, continuing to chatter idly in between bites. 

“So, Bojan, what do you do?” Sean asks before taking a large bite of an apple. 

“For work? If I’m to be honest, I plan to figure that out once I land.”

“Fair enough,” Sean smiles. “For fun, then. What do you do?”

“I like to write music,” Bojan admits, buttering a soft slice of bread. Sean glances excitedly at his friends.

“We brought our instruments along,” says Jean Paul, seated on the other side of Dav Jr. “We were planning on taking them up to the general room after breakfast. Care to join us?” The three look excitedly at Bojan and Jere.

Jere smiles and shrugs. “I like music.”

“Sure, we’d like that. That is, if I can even move after eating all of this,” Bojan laughs, gesturing to his still mostly-full plate.

Bojan and Jere each down a second coffee before breakfast is over, compensating for their earlier start to the morning. Bojan had initially planned to catch a quick mid-morning nap, but not anymore. He and Jere grab their jackets, and arrange to meet their new friends at the general room in half an hour’s time. 

He hadn’t expected to have such a good time, travelling alone, but he has to admit that he’s enjoying himself so far. Maybe this voyage- this brief reprieve from deciding what to do with his life- will end up serving him well, after all. 

Chapter Text

“It’s called the saxophone,” Sean explains, showing his instrument to Bojan and Jere. Bojan had certainly heard of the instrument, but he’d never actually seen one up close before. He watches with mild interest as Sean inserts his reed into the instrument and tunes it.

Dav Jr. gently strums the guitar he’d brought up from his cabin. Jean Paul has a small hand drum. Bojan had left his own instrument to his friend Nace back home, but the general room has a piano, and Bojan sits down at the bench, marvelling at the scent of fresh paint. Jere sits on the bench too, facing away from the piano, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I am ready to hear some good music,” Jere grins.

“It’ll be music, alright,” says Jean Paul. “Whether it’s any good…” he glances over at Sean’s saxophone. Sean makes a face at him.

“They never take my baby seriously,” Sean says, pouting.

“I’m telling you, that thing was a waste of money. It’s a fad.”

“It is not!”

Dav Jr. clears his throat loudly, giving his friends a look that says ‘cut it out’ before turning to Bojan and Jere. “Well… shall we just mess around, or is there anything we all know how to play?”

The men deliberate on different pieces before ultimately deciding to go with the previous year’s hit, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” It’s an odd mishmash of instruments to play such a piece with, but if anything, it adds to the charm. 

As Bojan and Dav Jr. sing, Jere hums along with the melody and taps his fingers against the bench to the beat of Jean Paul’s drum. 

“Let me call you ‘Sweetheart,’ I’m in love with you
Let me hear you whisper that you love me too.
Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true
Let me call you ‘Sweetheart,’ I’m in love with you.”

A handful of other passengers have filtered into the general room by the time the men reach the song’s second verse, presumably having come over to see what the fuss is about. A few young women seat themselves at a table a few meters away from the piano, and start to sing along during the final chorus.

“...Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true
Let me call you ‘Sweetheart,’ I’m in love with you.”

The ending of the song is met with light applause from the other passengers. “That was lovely,” says one of the girls at the table. “No need for the ship’s orchestra to play down here- they’d be put to shame by the likes of you.”

“Well, that’s quite the high compliment,” Sean says, but not before throwing Jean Paul a smug look. “Thank you, miss…?”

“Patricie Kaňok Fuxová.” The woman leaves her seat and extends her hand to Sean. “No ‘miss’ is necessary.” Sean takes her hand gently, intending to kiss the top of it, and is instead surprised when she nearly crushes his fingers in a firm handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Sean manages to muster once Patricie has released his hand. “What brings you ladies aboard?” he asks, propping the saxophone in its case and then joining the group at the table. 

“We felt that organizing a six-person swim across the Atlantic might pose its challenges,” answers one of the girls, in a dry tone. “Better to leave such things to the professionals.” 

Eventually, Dav Jr., Jean Paul, Bojan and Jere join the table as well, chatting with the women about all sorts of things- music, their home countries, families, even politics, which delights the women especially.

“Most men would retreat to the smoking room for such a discussion,” Markéta points out. “They don’t consider it appropriate for a woman to have an opinion about anything a man considers important.”

“My father might agree with them on that point,” says Bojan. “Luckily, I don’t take after him all that much.”

“I meet many women in my country who work harder than any politician, yes?” says Jere. “They think politics will confuse the woman who works a farm, keeps her family happy and fed? My mutsi could run a country better than a king.”

Bojan nor the others have been keeping track of time, and the midday dinner bell comes as a shock to all of them.

“That time already?” Dav Jr. asks, standing. “Thank you for the pleasant conversation, everyone. Normally we wouldn’t leave so abruptly, but we must bring our instruments back to the cabin and be back in time for dinner, so we’d better hurry off.”

“We’ll save your seats for you!” Bojan calls out to his new friends as they head out.

Bojan, Jere and the girls head down to the dining saloon on F Deck together, parting once they reach the entrance; the saloon is separated by a bulkhead, with single men being seated on one side of it and women and families on the other.

“Enjoy your dinner, ladies!” says Jere as he takes a menu from the stand out front.

“I am certain that we will cross paths again,” Bára assures the two men before heading into her side of the saloon. “It was nice meeting you.”

Jere turns to Bojan as the two head toward the same seats they had occupied at breakfast. “You sing very well. Your voice, it is …” he struggles to find a word as they pull out their chairs and sit. Bojan wants to help him, but the thought of coming up with a compliment to describe his own voice makes him feel suddenly shy.

Jere shakes his head. “It is ... nice. It is more than nice, but I do not know how to describe it. You have a gift, Bojan.”

“Uh, thank you. You’re very kind to say that.” Bojan fiddles with the edges of his shirtsleeves. It’s not like he hasn’t ever received a compliment before, but the sincerity with which Jere, who had known him for less than a day, had delivered it, took him by surprise. 

“Maybe you will be a singer when you go to America,” Jere smiles as he reads the menu.

Bojan picks up his own menu. “Maybe on the street corners,” he laughs.

“No, in a theatre. With lots of people listening.” Jere says it so matter-of-factly that Bojan nearly dares to picture it.

“That’s a crazy idea,” he chuckles.

“I have many crazy ideas,” Jere shrugs. “Sometimes, in the end, they are my best ones.”

“Hello…?” Luke groans as he feels a hand shaking his shoulder.

“You have to get up,” hisses Rani- or, as most of the other crew had come to know him, Reiley. “Our watch starts in twenty minutes.”

“I’m exhausted,” Luke complains. “What will they do if I stay in my berth, hm? Throw me overboard?”

Reiley rolls his eyes and kneels down to lace his boots. “If you want to go down for insubordination, be my guest, but I don’t fancy the idea of being alone in the nest for the next week.”

Luke sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. “Fine.”

Once both men are in uniform, they head up to the bridge. 

“All additional passengers have boarded, gentlemen. We’ll be leaving Queenstown shortly,” Fifth Officer Mengoni informs Luke and Reiley.

“Thank you, Officer,” says Reiley. “We’ll keep contact with you as we leave the port.”

After ascending the ladder to the crow’s nest, Luke begins to look around the nest in confusion, even standing up from his seat.

“You’re supposed to be looking beyond the ship, not in it,” remarks Reiley, looking a little bored already.

“Where’s the key for the glasses?” Luke asks, referring to a small locker in the back of the crow’s nest that holds a single pair of binoculars for the lookouts.

“I haven’t seen it,” Reiley shrugs. “I’m sure it’ll turn up before nightfall, maybe one of the men on the last watch pocketed it by mistake. By any rate, we won’t need the glasses for this watch. Relax.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Luke sits down. “We might as well enjoy this view of Queenstown here while we still have it. We won’t be seeing anything else but water and sky until we get to New York.”

“Maybe some other ships,” Reiley suggests. “Not a lot of liners this far North, I suppose it’s too early in the season.”

“Exactly. Too damn cold for this in April. Oh, to be a lookout on the Mediterranean right now.”

“Don’t be sour,” Reiley sighs. “If you complain for the next four hours, I’ll be throwing you off the nest myself.”

“Is that a promise?” Luke snorts.

“Look, I’m not loving the weather either, but you have to admit you felt at least a little excited when you got word you’d be transferred to the Titanic for her maiden voyage. Proud, even.” Reiley adjusts his cap over his shock of curly hair.

“She may be grand, Reiley, but she’s just a ship. There have been ships before, and there will be ships after. And we’re just some sailors who had enough experience to be put in the nest of a new ship. There will be headlines in the papers, sure, about the White Star Line, the Captain, the elite passengers. Not you, not I, nor the stewards or the scullions in the galley. This time next year, there’ll be an even bigger ocean liner making headlines, and people will forget about the Titanic.”

Reiley lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re still making a very good case for being thrown off, you know.”

“Trying my best.”