Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 April 10, 1912

 Southampton, England.

 The RMS Titanic loomed like a palace against the sky. Her hull, black and gold, gleamed in the morning light. Smoke poured from the four great funnels, the hum of the engines barely audible under the noice of the crowd; dockworkers shouting, women laughing behind lace fans, porters wheeling crates, trunks and even pianos onboard.

 Among them, Kang Yeosang stood still, silent. His mother chattered with the steward about their suite arrangements. Choi Jongho, her latest matchmaking effort and Yeosang's fiance stood to his right - tall, stiff and utterly disinterested in the world unless it could be shaped to serve him. He wore a top hat like it was armor. Yeosang wore a suit worth more than most of the people around him made in a year. But he had never felt smaller.

 They boarded through the First-Class gangway-red carpet rolled across the planks, white-gloved officers nodding in recorgnition as the elites passed by. Laughter rang out like coins. Yeosang's grip around the railing tightened as he walked up. His mother touched his elbow "You're pale. Try not to look like you're being marched to your execution." He said nothing.

 On their way to their suite, Yeosang descends the grand staircase along with his mother, every step rehearsed, every smile fake. He is the image of control - of elegance. People say he's lucky to be him. They don't see the stiffness in his hands. The way he glances back at the doors, as if he might still escape. Their suite was sprawling. Gilded fixtures, mahogany furniture and a balcony that overlooked the sea. It was everything his mother loved and everything Yeosang had learned to resent. Jongho stepped up beside him as Yeosang stood by the window, watching the shipyard recede. "A magnificent vessel," Jongho said "unbreakable. Fitting, don't you think?" Yeosang met his gaze, eyes unreadable "What would that make us then? Passengers or cargo?" Jongho smiled without humor. "I would say royalty, my dear Yeosang." Yeosang turned back to the sea and thought of drowning. "I'm going on a small walk." Yeosang turned away from Jongho and left the suite.

 Across the ship, third-class passengers boarded through a different entrance - fewer handshakes, more inspections. Bags were checked for lice, children clung to their parents, wide-eyed. Choi San stood in line with only a knapsack and a sketchbook. He had no fine suit, no promises, only a ticket he had won in a poker game the night before and a grin that hadn't faded since. As the ship's horn bellowed and the crowd roared, San stepped onto the gangway and whispered to himself, "Alright you bastard, let's go see the world"

 Yeosang found himself wondering around he ship aimlessly until he finds himself on the deck. He shouldn't be here and he knows it, but the air feels so different from the stuffy air of First-Class halls. He's about to turn back when a sudden burst of laughter stops him. He turns his head - just in time to see a flash of someone rushing by. A young man, hair wild, cheecks flushed, paint.stained fingers gripping a rolled-up sketchbook. Their eyes meet for a second. Brown, wide eyes like fire and wind, like something alive in a world where everything feels dead. Yeosang's breath catches. Then the boy is gone, into the dark. Yeosang doesn't move for a long time.

 That night San finds a quiet corner of the third-class deck. There's music nearby - fiddles and clapping, laughter so real it aches in his chest. He takes out his sketchbook, sharpens his charcoal pencil and starts sketching. He sketches someone dancing, wide smile on their lips, someone who looks awfully like the man he met earlier, when he was running around the ship with two men who he had just met, Yunho and Mingi. San sighs as he remembered the look in the other's eyes, the look of sadness. San looks down at the sketch. It's messy, wild and before he realizes, he's tearing the page out, folding it and tucking into his jacket pocket before standing up and making his way to the benches, deciding to lay down for a bit to look at the stars above.

 The ship's dining room sparkles with crystal and chandeliers. Yeosang sat beside his fiance, his plate untouched. It was that night, that Yeosang first considered jumping. The meal was endless - a parade of courses and polite conversataions. His mother praised Jongho's investments, the ladies discussed art they didn't understand. A man with a monocle asked Yeosang if he intended to enter Parliament like his father, Yeosang just smiled, perfect and distant. After dessert he excused himself and made his way to the stern deck alone, past the music, past the warm glow of the chandeliers, past the lifeboats lined quietly in rows. He found a corner of the railing where no one was watching and climbed onto it. The water below was black, the stars shimmered in it like teeth. He took a breath and closed his eyes, ready to let go.

  "Hey!" The voice was rough, breathless and urgent. Yeosang turned, startled. San stood behind him, one hand raised, eyes wide. "What are you doing?" "Leave." Yeosang sighed. "Get down first." "I said leave." Yeosang watched as san took a small step forward, "And I said get down." Yeosang stared. San stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a frightened animal. "You don't want to do this." Yeosang's voice shook, "What do you know about it?" "I know the cold water hurts like hell. I know the shock alone would knock you out. I know they wouldn't find your body." Yeosang closed his eyes again. "Look, if you jump, I'm going to have to jump after you. And I can't swim well enough to drag a stubborn bastard back to shore, so how about you don't kill us both?" A breathless silence. Then slowly, Yeosang climbed back over the railing. His legs gave out the second his feet touched the deck. He slumped on the floor, but luckily San caught him before he hit the ground. Yeosang didn't protest.

 They sat in silence for a while, backs against the deck wall, the sea groaning softly below. "Name's San," the boy finally said "From Namhae." Yeosang looked at him - really looked. San's hair was messy, his jacket patched, but his eyes were clear. Kind. Fierce. Damn, he looked good. "Yeosang.." he said softly. "Well, Yeosang, you owe me a life." San chuckled, while Yeosang almost smiled, almost.

 A few minutes later, a group of officers found them. They had been reported. Yeosang stood quickly, brushing himself off. "What the hell happened here?" "I slipped." Yeosang said in hurry. "Mr. San here pulled me back." San blinked, "That's not-" Yeosang elbowed him hard. The officer frowned "You slipped?" Yeosang nodded. San stared at him. Then, catching the message, added "Yeah. He was lucky I was there." "Very well," the officer paused, eyeing San. "You'll be rewarded for your bravery." "No reward necessary," San said grinning, "seeing his face when I yelled was worth it." Yeosang snorted.

 Later that night, in the silence of his suite, Yeosang sat at the small desk, staring at his reflection in the mirror. San's voice echoed in his head. "You owe me a life." Yeosang touched his own cheek, then he smiled.

 The next day San was chilling on the deck, enjoying the sun when a figure appeared in front of him, blocking the sun and making San open his eyes and look up at the figure. "Hi San." Yeosang hummed, watching San scramble up, "Yeosang, what are you doing here?" San  quickly grabs his sketchbook and fixes his clothes "Follow me" Yeosang stars walking along the deck, smiling a bit when he sees San walking beside him, until they reach a less crowded area and can sit down. "I wanted to thank you San. What you did was brave." San shrugs "Just did what I had to. I couldn't let you jump." Yeosang sighs, playing with his hands softly, "You probably think I'm overdramatic. Poor rich boy, what does he know about misery.. What does he know about suffering when everything is handed to him without him even asking." San frowned, "No. Not at all. What I am curious about is what could have happened that made you think you don't have another way out of it. That the only way out would be death." Yeosang looked at San, "I'm on my way to my own wedding, San.. Almost 600 invitations have been sent out. And yet, I feel like this isn't worth a celebration. My fiance was chosen because he's rich, because without this marriage we would end up po-" Yeosang stopped as he remembered who he was with, "we would end up as a part of the lower incomes.. Mother would have to work and she does not like the idea of spending her time doing anythting else but sipping tea and talking gossip with her acquaintances." San listens Yeosang, humming softly once he's done, "You could come with me once we dock." He looked at Yeosang, "I know I don't have much, but we could travel the world, see new places and you would never have to attend those hideous parties and wear a fake smile ever again." Yeosang looked at San with wide eyes, "You mean that? Really?" San nodded quickly, rubbing his neck a bit, embarrassed, "Only if you want to, of course. I'm not forcing you into anything you don't want to be a part of."

 Yeosang smiled, "I'd like that.. I'd like that alot, San." Then, his gaze lowered to the sketchbook in San's hands, and his interest grew, "Why do you always carry that around?" San followed Yeosang's gaze and lifted the sketchbok, "Well, this is how I make my living.. Drawing people." Yeosang held out his hand, wanting to look into it and San gave it to him without hesitation. Yeosang flipped to the first page, humming as he sees drawings of the same man, over and over again. "Who's he?" San lookes at the drawings, "That's Wooyoung.." Yeosang flips to another page, filled with the same man, sharp eyes and teasing smile - dozen versions, some laughing, some smoking and some dancing. Sometimes clothed, sometimes not. Yeosang's expression softens, "Was he someone you-?" San shakes his head. "No. I think I was just trying to draw the feelings of wanting. He let me get close. But he never touched me in that way." Yeosang carefully traces a finger down the spine of the page, "Wish I had known you then," he said quietly. "You wouldn't have liked me," San whispers, "I was loud. Reckless." Yeosand smiles, "I would have drawn you too.." San's heart flips. Yeosang closes the sketchbook but not before he sees the newest page. Him. Looking out to sea. Sad and beautiful and finally seen.

 Later that day, when San was in his cabin, looking for his sharpener he swore he had put back in the small pouch the sketchbook had, he found a slip of paper in his pocket. It was stiff and ivory-colored, First-Class. A note was written on the back in looping, elegant script.

 "Dinner. Tonight. 7pm. Don't be late-Yeosang"

 San stared at it for a long time. Then laughed so loud the guy in the bunk above him fell off his mattress. "Yah! San-ah. What's so funny?" Yunho rubbed his head he had bumped onto the edge of the bedframe. "Oh, nothing hyung, sorry, just remembered a funny joke Mingi told us earlier" San lied. He couldn't tell Yunho the truth, not yet, not before he was sure. He watched Yunho climb back up to his bed with a sigh.

 He had nothing formal to wear. Nothing suitable for a room full of crystal glasses and practiced smiles. But he showed up anyway, hair combed back, eyes gleaming. Yeosang was waiting for him in the reception area in a slim black suit, every inch the nobleman's son. But when he saw San, his face broke into something genuine. "God," San whispered, "you¨re like a painting." Yeosang rised an eyebrow "You're late." "You're lucky I came" San grinned. "You're lucky I invited you." They both smiled.

 Dinner was chaos- San didn't understand half the food, made jokes that made the entire table go silent, and accidentally used the wrong fork three times. But it didn't matter, because Yeosang couldn't stop laughing. He made Yeosang laugh, and what a pretty laugh it was. Jongho watched them from across the room with a gaze like ice. To him, san was just a parasite, just a worthless, poor man, someone who could never be even a small risk to his future with Yeosang. The gazes he sent thowards San and Yeosang made San nervous but it quickly faded away when Yeosang made a joke about Jongho, because deep down he knew, Yeosang didn't care about Jongho at all. After realizing that, he couldn't look at the food anymore. He was looking at Yeosang. Yeosang, who hasn't let go of his hand under the table since he had to calm San down a bit. Who's smiling like the storm has passed, like he's finally letting himself taste what freedom feels like. It almost feels safe. Until his voice cuts through it like ice. 

 "Well. Isn't this cozy." Yeosang stiffens and his hand slips from San's. Jongho's eyes are as sharp as his voice - an expensive tuxedo, hair combed back and an expression that screams rick. Yeosang's fiance. "Jongho," Yeosang says tightly, rising halfway. He doesn't offer a hand. Doesn't smile. Just looks at San up and down like he's a stain on the tablecloth. "Yeosang, you didn't tell me you were entertaining..." His gaze flicks to San's clothes, "...artists.." San resists the urge to stab a fork into the table. Yeosang stands fully now, voice low but firm. "This is San. He's my guest." Jongho tilts his head. "Yes. I heard. Quite the story - third-class boy, sketchbook full of dreams, caught the attention of our dear Yeosang. How romantic." San doesn't rise. Doesn't blink. "Better than a loveless engagement." He says flatly. Jongho's expression hardens. Yeosang touched San's shoulder. A warning. Not here. Jongho folds his arms. "You think this will last? That he'll trade a fortune for..this?" He doesn't say it with hate. Just certainty. San slowly gets to his feet. Not tall, not grand - but steady. "I don't need him to trade anything," he says quietly. "He's not a prize. He's a person. And you don't know him." Jongho's eyes flash. "But I do," San adds. "I know how he looks when he's afraid. I know the sound he makes when he laughs for real. You only know the shape he fits into." For a second, no one speaks. Then Jongho'smouth twists, brittle and cold. "This ship will sink long before your little fantasy survives to landfall." He turns on his heels and leaves without another word. 

 Yeosang sits down slowly. Shaken. Ashamed. San doesn't say anything right away. Then: "you okay?" Yeosang nods, but his eyes are far away. "Don't listen to him," San says softly. "You're more than what he made you into." Yeosang looks at him - and there it is again. That flicker of wanting to believe. San reaches for his hand again, "Let me take you somewhere nice." Yeosang looks at him and nods, this time not letting go of San's hand. They leave the dining room toghether, hand in hand.

 After dinner, they walked the deck. San told stories - about painting signs in Daegu, about nearly getting arrested for graffiti in Marseille, about sleeping on rooftops and eating stolen apples. Yeosang listened like someone being fed after a long famine. And for the first time in his life, he felt alive.

 San took him below the deck, past the crew corridors and into the third-class common room, where music played and people danced like the floor was on fire. Yeosang laughed as San spun him into the chaos, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. They danced until Yeosang's lungs gave out and he collapsed into a chair, dizzy and gasping. "I haven't felt this human in years," he said, breathless. San leaned close. "That's a shame." Yeosang looked at him. And for the first time, he let himself forget everything else.

Chapter Text

 Yeosang was glowing. Not in the delicate way his mother preferred - porcelain skin, soft voice, lowered eyes - but in the way San had lit a match inside him, and now everything in his chest was burning with color. He'd spent his life surrounded by wealth and never felt rich. But after dancing barefoot on the third-class deck, drinking cheap beer out of a chipped cup, and laughing so hard his ribs ached, he finally understood something. Freedom was not elegant. It was wild.

 He was still laughing the next morning when he joined his mother for tea. She noticed immediately, "You look flushed." "I danced," he said, "last night." "With whom?" Yeosang shrugs, "A friend." Her expression barely flickered, but Yeosang knew her too well."Your fiance isn't a fan of common company." she said lightly. "Well, I'm not a fan of my fiance." "Yeosang." He stood up, "I'm going on a walk." She called after him, but he didn't turn around.

 San was on the bow, sketchbook open, legs dangling over the edge like gravity wasn't a concern. "You'll fall." Yeosang said softly, stepping beside him. "I have an excellent balance." "Or no fear." San glanced up, "You came back." Yeosang smiled, "You make it sound like I escaped something." "Didn't you though?"

 They sat together, watching waves shatter beneath the ship's path. "Can I see the rest of your sketches?" San smiled and handed Yeosang the sketchbook. Yeosang flipped past the sketches of Wooyoung, now focusing on the rest of the filled pages, series of quick, expressive sketches and portraits. A woman braiding a child's hair. A man hunched with his hands in his pockets. A child and her father with the Eiffel Tower in the background. "You've been to Paris?" Yeosang looked at San, who nodded, "Yeah. Stayed there for quite a while, people paid well for my sketches. That's how I was able to afford to travel from there to England." Yeosang hummed, nodding before flipping foward, each sketch made with strokes of charcoal. Each stroke alive. Imperfect. Human. Yeosang flipped the pages until he stopped at the latest one. Another one of him. Drawn from memory, head tilted, wind in his hair. He looked like someone real. "Do I really look like that?" San shrugged, "I only draw what I see." Yeosang closed the sketchbook, looking into San's eyes. Then he said, "Draw me properly."

 They snuck into Yeosang's suite at sunset, when he knew no one would be bothering them in many, many hours. The moment San entered the room, his eyes widened "God, you sleep in here?" "Unfortunately." San looked around, "It's bigger than the third-class dining area." Yeosang turned around, smile sly. "You're not here to tour." "Oh?" "You're here to draw me." San blinked, "You're serious?" "I'm asking. Please." "Like.. The way I have drawn you before, or-" "Naked. Like Wooyoung." San nearly choked on air. Yeosang leaned in. "You have drawn dozens of people before. Why not me?" San looks at Yeosang, his gaze dropping to Yeosang's lips for just a second before he pulls himself back together, and answers, "Because you're.. you." Yeosang smiles, "And you're you. Sketch me." A moment of silence. Then San nodded, "Okay..." Yeosand smiled and hummed, walking to the chaise by the window, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it slip from his shoulders and drop onto the floor. "Is the light enough?" "Huh?" San gaze lifted from his torso to his eyes and it made Yeosang giggle. "The light. Don't artists need good light?" San blushed a little, "The light is perfect.." After that, Yeosang got rid of the rest of his clothes and San tried really hard not to stare. He failed.

 The drawing took an hour. Yeosang laid stretched across the velvet chaise, head tilted, lips parted just slightly. The remains of the sunset painted soft gold on his skin, casting shadows that danced over his collarbones. San worked in silence, jaw thight, pencil trembling. He had drawn hundreds of people, but never like this. Never while feeling like he was baring his entire soul with every line he drew. When it was done, he exhaled like he had been underwater. Yeosang pulled his robe around his shoulders and came to look. He didn't speak for a long time. Then: "I have never looked like this before." San turned and looked at Yeosang, "This is how I see you." His gaze lowered to Yeosang's lips again, this time letting his eyes wonder on Yeosang's face. Who knew how much longer he would be this close. Yeosang looked at San, noticing, leaning closer, "What would you like for payment?" "What are you offering?" Yeosang smirked a bit, "Anything." "Anything?" San whispered. When Yeosang nodded, San licked his lips and closed the distance between them.

 He kissed Yeosang softly, like he was made of porcelain, like he was something that could break even from the slightest touch. Yeosang slowly moved to the front, taking the sketchbook from San and placing it on the floor before sitting on San's lap, without breaking the kiss. His hands rise to San's shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if it anchors him. San deepens the kiss, wrapping his arms around Yeosang's bare waist, pressing them together more firmly, until Yeosang is flushed against him. When they part, breathless and searching, San murmurs, "Tell me to stop if you want me to." "I don't," Yeosang whispers, "I want this. I want you." With practiced care, San hooked his arms under Yeosang's legs and stood up slowly, walking to the bedroom and shutting the door behind them. San guides Yeosang back, laying him gently across the silk sheets. The lamp by the bed casts a golden glow over his skin, highlighting every curve of Yeosang's bare body. San watches him for a bit, reverent. 

 "You're so beautiful," San murmurs again, like a mantra, as he leans down to kiss the column of Yeosang's throat, his collarbones, every place he can reach. Yeosang gasps under him, hands curling into San's back. San's clothes come off slowly, layer by layer, like a secret unfolding. The heat between them builds with every touch - fingers tracing over hips, lips pressed to skin, the slow grind of want tempered by something deeper, something tender. When San finally sits back, pulling Yeosang's legs apart gently, he pauses. "Are you sure?" he asks again. Yeosang nods, breath shaky. "Please." And that's all it takes for San to wet his fingers. He prepares Yeosang with care, whispering words of reassurance between kisses and breathy moans. Yeosang's legs wrap around San's waist instinctively, pulling him closer. When San finally enters him, it's slow and steady, a deep stretch that makes Yeosang's back arch, his toes curl and his lips part in a broken, soft cry. San holds him, stills for a moment, letting Yeosang get used to the feeling, then begins to move with gentle rhythm. Every motion speaks. I'm here. I've got you. You're safe.

 Yeosang clings to him, eyes fluttering shut, lost in the overwhelming feeling of being filled - claimed, worshipped, loved. The world fades away. There's only San. The sound of his voice, the heat of his skin against his, the rhythm of his thrusts, slowly picking up pace when San grows more confident. Soon Yeosang felt the pressure in his lower stomach build and build until his body trembles with release, head thrown back as he moans San's name like a prayer. San follows soon after, spilling into Yeosang with a groan, his hands never leaving Yeosang's skin. San slowly pulls out and lays beside panting Yeosang, pulling him close. They lie there for a while, tangled in the sheets, catching their breath. Eventually San shifts to pull Yeosang even closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You're mine," he whispers. Yeosang's eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep and satisfaction. "I always was."

 The room is quiet except for the gentle hum of the ship beneath them and the rhythm of their breath slowly returning to calm. San lays on his side, one arm looped around Yeosang's waist, his nose pressed to the curve of Yeosang's shoulder. Their bodies are still slick with sweat, skin to skin. Yeosang hums sofftly when San's fingers draw idle shapes on his hipbone. He feels boneless, warm, filled in ways he never knew he was empty. "I can't feel my legs," he mumbles, a faint, pleased smile on his lips. San chuckles into his skin, "Sorry. Want me to go get water or..?" Yeosang laughs, real and light and a little breathless. "No. Just stay here for a bit longer." San obliges immediately, pressing a soft kiss to Yeosang's collarbone. "I wasn't planning on moving." They stay like that, drifting in silence. There's no rush, no words needed. Just the quiet beating of two hearts now in sync, the shared breath between them, the warmth.  But slowly, the hand on Yeosang's hip becomes less idle - more purposeful. Gentle strokes become curious, teasing touches. A soft brush of fingertips along the inside of his thigh. A kiss pressed just below his ear. Yeosang shifts slightly under the touch, not pulling away - just... aware. San's voice is barely a whisper. "Too much?" Yeosang tilts his head to glance at San, his eyes still sleepy, but there's a spark in them now. "No," he murmurs. "Not if you stay gentle and slow." 

 San kisses him again, softer this time. He guides Yeosang onto his back, not with urgency, but care. Every motion is deliberate, patient. He worships Yeosang's body all over again, from the dip of his collarbone to the swell of his thighs, each kiss a wordless confession. When he slides back inside, Yeosang gasps - still sensitive, but craving it. This time it's not about release. It's about closeness, about being known. Their hands find each other and hold tight. Their foreheads press together, eyes fluttering open only to meet in the golden lamplight. Neither of them speaks. They don't need to. The rhythm is slow, deep. San rocks into Yeosang gently, mouth brushing against his cheek, jaw and lips. He never breaks contact, not even once. Yeosang's soft whimpers fill the room, quiet and sweet and desperate in the way only he can be.  And when he comes again, shuddering, San follows once more, burying himself to the hilt and spilling with a whispered, "Yeosang..." 

 Laying on his bed, in San's arms, Yeosang felt, for the first time in his life, like he could open his heart for someone else. "I never wanted this life," he said. "I was born into a world I can't breathe in." San traced circles on his waist, "My offer still stands." Yeosang lifted his head from San's chest, looking into his eyes, and San continued, "No more suits, no more Choi What's-His-Name. Just... you and me. Train rides, rooftops and sunrises. And... I know you basically said yes already, but I want you to know that I'm serious. About the offer. About us." Yeosang's eyes stung. "You really mean that?" "Of course I do, Yeosang." They stared at each other. Then Yeosang leaned in, so slow it was barely a motion at all. Their lips met met again like a tide - soft at first, then desperate, crashing, clinging. Yeosang's hand tangled in San's hair. San pulled him closer until nothing else existed. Then, Yeosang pulled away. "I need some time to think." Yeosang looked at San with eyes that screamed different emotions. Sadness. Fear. Uncertainty. But San just smiled up at him, "I'm willing to wait as long as necessary." he whispered.

 Outside, the ship sailed on, splitting the dark Atlantic like a blade. The stars above were the only witnesses.

It was nearly midnight, when San and Yeosang snuck onto the deck, breathless and laughing softly. Yeosang pulled San toward the bow. "Come here." "Again?" Yeosang huffed, "Just trust me." They climbed the railing together. The wind whipped their hair. Yeosang stepped forward, turning back. "Do you trust me?" San rolled his eyes - but smiled. "Yes." Yeosang took his hands, guiding him until San stood behind him, arms outstretchedm the ocean roaring below. "I'm flying," San whispered. Yeosang leaned back againt him. And for a moment, they were.

 Then, everything changed. A shudder beneath their feet. A grinding sound, then silence. The Titanic slowed down. San and Yeosang looked at each other, then toward the horizon. Where something dark floated in the moonlight. "What was that?" Yeosang asked. San's brows furrowed.

 "An iceberg."

Chapter Text

 At first, everything was a blur. People were gathering on the deck to see what was happening, gasping and whispering when they was the ice berg, some figuring everything out and quickly making their way back inside, some just staring out into the dark. Then, the lights flickered. Officers moved with urgency, though they tried to hide it. Yeosang's stomach dropped. Soon, a voice echoed down the halls and deck.

 "All passengers return to your cabins. This is a precaution only."

 Yeosang grabbed San's hand, "Don't let go." "Never." They ran. Not to the suite to warn Yeosang's mother and Jongho, but to San's cabin. To wake Yunho and Mingi up. They didn't know why - it just felt right. Everything was moving faster now. Crew shouting, water trickling down unseen walls. Yeosang turned to San, heart pounding, "That wasn't just a bump." "No," San said, eyes grim. "It wasn't." They tried to get back to the upper decks - but the gates were already closed. Third-class passengers were being held below. San shouted. Yeosang pounded on the metal bars, Yunho and Mingi soon joining them, but no one came. The water already flooding up the stairs. They didn't have much time. The ship was sinking. And fast.

 San was quick to find something to pry the gate open with and soon they were finally bursting through the gate to another stairwell and out into the cold. People were screaming, lifeboats were being filled and lowered. Only women and children, First-Class passengers with tickets. Yeosan's mother was already in line, lifejacket on. She was him, reached out for him. Yeosang shook his head. San's hand gripped his. "I'm not leaving you," Yeosang said. "Yeosang-" "No." Then, Jongho appeared. He grabbed Yeosang's wrist, "Come with me. Let's get the hell out of here before this ship sinks." Yeosang yanked his hand back, "No. I'm not coming with you." Jongho's eyes flashed, "You-" Then he saw the markings on Yeosang's neck and smirked, "You'd rather be his whore? Spend your life with a lowlife like him?" Yeosang looked at Jongho up and down, "I'd rather be his whore than your husband. At least he knows how to treat me right, unlike you." Jongho lunged, but San stepped between them, eyes blazing. Yeosang pushed past them both, dragging San with him. Jongho follows them, yelling at Yeosang to stop and do as he is told.

 They ran again. Down corridors, past crying children down a flight of stairs to the second-class deck. The ship groaned, it was tilting now, the bow sinking. Yeosang's breath caught, "We're not going to make it." He whispered. "Yes we are." San said, panting softly from the running, "Listen to me. We'll survive this." Soon, they stumble into a small drawing room near the top deck, breathless. The door shuts behind them with a sharp click, and for a moment, the chaos outisde fades to a distant, muffled roar. The room is untouched.. A single lamp flickers ona atble, curtains ripple from the broken windows. A forgotten cup of tea sits cold beside an open book. The world is tilting, but here - just for now, it feels still.

 "I thought we were going to die earlier. In the stairwell." Yeosang lets out a breathless laugh, too thin to be real. "We still might." San turns his head, ressting it against a wall, eyes fixed on Yeosang. "If we do, I want to remember this part." "This part?" "You. Just you. WIth me. Here." Yeosang blinks slowly, his throat working around a lump he can't swallow. He reaches out - hesitates - the laces his finegrs through San's, "I was so stupid," Yeosang whispers, "I should have kissed you sooner, I should have ran with you the first night we talked instead of staying beside him." San doesn't reply. Just stares at him, eyes dark and endless. Yeosang leans in, close enough to smell the salt and smoke on San's jacket. "If we survive this-" "You will." Yeosang closes his eyes, "If we survive this. I want mornings with you. I want to wake up beside you in some place that isn't covered in gold or drowning in rules. I want to hear your laugh before I open my eyes. I want years of that." San's breath catches. He pulls Yeosang close, tugging him into his arms until they're pressed against each other. They don't kiss, they don't cry. They just hold on. Outside the windows, the stars glimmer above the rising water. Inside, for one perfect moment, there is warmth, and love, and time.

 The ship groans again - louder this time. A metallic scream splits the silence, and the floor lurches violently beneath them. Somewhere beyond the door, there's shouting. A voice calls, "They're sealing the upper halls! Move!" San's head snaps up, "That's us. We have to go" They scramble and stumble to the door and into the corridor. People are flooding past in both directions, some holding children, others dragging trunks they can't bear to leave behind. A steward is barking orders, waving toward a narrowing passage that leads to the last open deck, the First-Class. Yeosang grips onto San's arm tight,"Stay close to me." But panic swells once again - bodies push, the crowd surges, and a wave of passengers presses between them. A burst pipe sprays water into the hallway. San is shoved hard, slipping on the wet floor.

 "San!" Yeosang's voice cracks with panic as he reaches for him. San catches himself against a wall, "I'm fine! Go - I'll catch up!" "No!" Yeosang tries to fight back through the crowd, but the tide of people is too strong. The steward is forcing everyone through, yelling about water already rising to the second floor. Yeosang's eyes meet San's across the distance - only a few feet, but impossibly far. "Don't let them close the doors!" San shouts. Yeosang hesitates a second too long - and then a crewman grabs him by the arm and pulls him back, just as the steel gate begins to close. "San!" "I'm right behind you!" But then the gate seals shut Yeosang slams his hands against it, chest heaving, staring through the bars at San on the other side. Still alive, still reaching back for him. "I'll find another way!" San yells. Yeosang's voice is ragged, "You better. You promised me mornings." San forces a shaky smile. "You're still getting them." The ship shudders again. Alarms blare overhead. And they both start running - in different directions - toward the nearest exits.

 The ship is nearly vertical now, bow submerged beneath black water. Screams echo like ghosts across the tilted decks. Lifeboats are gone, and the only way forward is up - up thowards the stern, thowards the last breath of air. Yeosang pulls himself up the slick metal rail, hands burning, lungs aching. He's crying, though he barely notices it - just wind and salt on his face. His only thought was San, San, San. And then - a flash of movement. A familiar silhouette struggling up from the shadows below. "San!" Yeosang's voice rips from his throat.  San looks up sharply, eyes wide, mouth parting in stunned disbelief "Yeosang-!"

 They both scramble forward, slipping across the metal deck until they collide - arms locking tight around each other, breath knocked from their chests. Yeosang clutches San like he'll never let go again. San buries his face in Yeosang's shoulder, trembling. "You," Yeosang breathes, "You found another way." !I tould you I would," San whispers, hoarse. Yeosang pulls back just enough to cup San's face, "You idiot. You reckless and beautiful idiot." "I love you," San says, simply, as if it the words have always been waiting to be said. "In case you don't know it yet." Yeosang swallows hard, "You say it every time you look at me." The deck lurches violently, water races closer. They turn together, hands still locked. There's no lifeboats left. No escape. But they are not alone, they have each other. And somehow, in the middle of all this - Yeosang finds that he's not afraid.

Chapter Text

The ship is almost gone. Only the stren remains above water now, rising like a dying creature against the stars. People cling to rails, jump into the freezing black. The ocean has no mercy - it swallows everything. Yeosang and San cling to the railing near the back, their fingers bloodless and trembling from cold and fear. The water's creeping closer. Yeosang grabs San's face, frantic, "We have to jump." San looks at Yeosang and nods, "Agreed, we jump together." And just as they were about to jump:

 "SAN! YEOSANG!" Mingi barrels toward them through the chaos, soaked, shaking and sobbing, "San- please-" Mingi cries, crashing into San, "Yunho-he's-he's stuck! He can't get out-the hallway collapsed-I couldn't-" His words tangled into choked cries. Yeosang felt San's body tense beside him. "No-" Yeosang clutched at San's arm, panic tightening around his throat. "No, San. We have to jump- there's no time- you'll die." San turned, meeting Yeosang's gaze - and in that look, Yeosang saw it. The decision was already made. "Yeosang," San breathed, voice trembling but sure,"I have to." Yeosang shook his head frantically. Tears blurred his vision. "No. No, please- please stay. We can- we can find him afterward-" San leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, quick and fierce, a kiss brushed to Yeosang's trembling lips. "I'll find you again," San whispered against his lips. "I swear it." Yeosang sobs, "You promised me mornings!" San looks at him, smiling softly, "You will get your mornings." "But I don't want them without you!" San cups Yeosang's face, "You'll still have them. And you will dream of me. You'll wake up and see the sun and know I loved you enough to give you all of that." Yeosang shook his head, "No. No, you don't get to choose this-" San kisses him again, it's not desperate, it's not hurried. It's peaceful - a surrender, and a promise. When he pulls back, Yeosang is a sobbing mess. "I love you, Yeosang," San whispers, pulling something out of the pocket isnide his jacket. His sketchbook. "And.. I want you to have this. In case I don't make it, I want you to fill the rest of the pages. Fill them with things that make you happy, that make you feel alive. If not for you, then for us. Live, for the both of us, baby." Then, with a final touch to Yeosang's chest - his hand over his heart - San turns and runs.

 "SAN!" Yeosang screamed after him, but San was already running - after Mingi, back down into the ship, back into the death trap they had barely escaped. Yeosang stumbled forward, aching to chase him - but the ship's deck groaned, buckling, throwing him backward. A heavy hand grabbed him, dragging him into the freezing water. The last thing Yeosang saw was San's figure disappearing into the smoke and chaos.

 The water is colder than anything he's ever known. It isn't just cold - it's alive, a thousand knives sinking into his skin all at once. His lungs seize, his chest locks. San. His name is like a prayer, a scream in Yeosang's mind. The moment Yeosang finally broke the surface, gasping for air, the night had turned into chaos. Bodies trash, debris floats like splinters of a shattered dream. The ship - their ship - is gone. Just smoke and silence and water. San is gone.  Yeosang's hands slap against the surface of the water as he turns in every direction. "San!?" No answer. Just sobs, screams. A woman clinging to a suitcase. A man who no longer moves. Yeosang's teeth chatter violently. His arms are going numb. He starts to swim - doesn't know where, but the need to atleast try to find San keeps him on the move. His limbs ache. His mind is screaming. He gave himself up. He gave himself up just to save someone else. 

 A piece of driftwood knocks into his side - a large wooden panel, slick and floating steady. Yeosang grabs hold of it, teeth gritted, chest heaving, "Come on, come on- don't you dare die now." He hauls himself onto it just enough to stay above the water. He clings to the wood, lips blue, hands bleeding. Other voices are fading, bodies floating. The night grows still, except for the sounds of the dying. And Yeosang - Yeosang wants to die too. Because San isn't beside him. Because he let him go. Because he said goodbye like it had to be him. 'You'll have mornings.' 'You'll dream of me.' 'You'll live for the both of us.''  Yeosang curls his frozen fingers into fists and presses his face against the cold, splintered wood. His body shakes - not just from the cold, but from grief. From fury. From love. And yet... he holds on. He holds on because San wanted him to. He holds on because San gave up everything. He holds on because letting go would make it all for nothing. And so Yeosang survives. Not because he wanted to, but because San needed him to.

 "Y-Yeosang.." Someone mumbles beside him, making Yeosang turn his head slowly, gasping, "Mingi.." then his eyes widened, "Yunho-?" The name ripping itself from his throat. "Mingi-did you-Yunho-?" Mingi shook his head, just once. Sharp. Final. It felt like a death blow. Mingi sobbed - broken, raw - and kicked toward Yeosang with the last of his strength. He grabbed onto the same piece of wood, nearly capsizing it. Together they clung, two shivering bodies against the black ocean. No words. Nothing to say. Only the knowledge, deep in their boned, that they had lost everything. They floated that way under the stars, too cold and heartbroken to look for lifeboats, too stubborn to let go. And all that remained was the night - and the promises still burning in their frozen chests.

 The Carpathia is warm. Too warm. Yeosang's wrapped in thick wool blankets, sitting on a cot among dozens of others. The hum of the ship beneath him is gentle, steady - alive in a way the Titanic is not. The steward offers him tea. He doesn't take it. He hasn't spoken since they pulled him and Mingi up from the sea. Mingi sobbing and begging for them to try to find Yunho and San. Neither of them had asked for food. Barely moved or blinked.  The others call them 'shell-shocked' . Say it with pity, whisper it like a diagnosis. But they're not in shock. They're mourning. Because San is dead. Because Yunho is dead. Because they died so Yeosang and Mingi could live and they have no idea how to make peace with that. At some point, Yeosang got up, walked to the edge of the ship and looked out at the sea. Thinking about San, about how terrified he must have been, about how they would never have their happy ending.

 The first night on board, he doesn't sleep. He just sits curled at the stern of the ship, staring out at the vast, empty sea. His lips are cracked. His hair is still damp. He holds the sketchbook San gave him in both hands. It's the only thing they found on him when they dragged him out of the water. He opens it to the first page. A drawing of Wooyoung laughing. Another of the sky from the third class deck. He flips to the last pages where he sees new sketches, ones San must have made just earlier that same day, when he was sitting on the edge of the Titanic. The sketches made Yeosang's heart ache: dreamlike images of new life in america - simple things. A home near the sea, hands reaching out for each other. Yeosang realizes San was serious about wanting more than just a fleeting affair. Then, Yeosang notices something poking out from between the pages. A crumpled piece of paper: San's handwriting.

 "You're the first thing I've ever wanted that wasn't meant for me."

 Yeosang folds the page and holds it against his heart and lets himself cry for the first time.

 On the second day, a woman he vaguely remembers from First-Class stops him in the hallway. She recognizes his name, says she's sorry. Yeosang nods once. She offers him her jacket, Yeosang refuses. On the third day, docked in New York, the press is everywhere. Flashes, shouts, questions.

 "Sir, were you traveling alone?"

 "Did you lose anyone?"

 "Can you tell us what you saw?"

 Yeosang's mouth moves before he can stop it, "I lost everything." He slips past them without another word.

 A small apartment, one suitcase, silence. He keeps to himself, funded by a quiet inheritance. He reads San's letter over and over again. Draws him from memory. Sketches his smile in charcoal, tries to capture the way he tilted his head when he laughed. He goes to bed before sunrise. Because mornings hurt the most.

 He doesn't know that somewhere on the sea, San is alive. He doesn't know that two pirates with quiet eyes and strange kindness have saved him. And Yunho.

Chapter Text

 The stars blurred and spun overhead. The ocean was endless, swallowing sounds, swallowing souls. San floated half-conscious, the freezing water numbing him inch by inch. His arms were wrapped tightly around Yunho, who clung to a splintered beam San had found for him - too weak to hold on by himself. Yunho's head lolled against San's shoulder, his breath shallow, barely a whisper. "Stay awake, Yunho," San croaked, voice shredded by cold. "You promised. You promised Mingi." San's own strength was failing now. His fingers had turned stiff and unfeeling where they gripped onto Yunho and the wood. HIs eyes fluttered shut. Somewhere in the distance, a ship's flare crackled against the sky - too far, too late. San didn't see it. He only saw Yeosang's face - the way he had looked when San kissed him goodbye, all saltwater and moonlight. I'll find you again. He smiled faintly, even as the darkness pulled him under. He was so cold, so tired. The sea dragged at him, and he let go. Darkness swallowed him. 

 The sea cradled San like a grave. The line between waking and dreaming blurred as his eyes fluttered shut. The pain faded, the cold blurred into quiet. And then - Wamth. A flicker of it, so gentle it made him want to sob. He blinked - and he wasn't in the ocean anymore. He was standing on the grand staircase of the Titanic, the chandelier glowing gold overhead. The air smelled like roses and clean linen. There was no screaming, no water, no cold. Just quiet. And Yeosang. At the top of the stairs, dressed in ivory and navy, bathed in light. He looked just as he had the night they danced. Perfect. Unreachable. Beautiful. San tried to speak, but his voice broke. Yeosang saw him - and smiled. That soft, secret smile. "I'm here," Yeosang said gently. His voice was a balm, a whisper of home. San reached for him, legs trembling beneath him - but Yeosang didn't move. "Not yet," he said, eyes shining. "You're not done." San's throat burned. "But I- I can't-" Yeosang took one step down the staircase. His voice was quiet, firm. "You can. You will. Just a little longer." San's vision began to fade again, black creeping in at the edges. "Don't give up on me," Yeosang said, fading with the light. "Please don't let go."

 A small battered skiff sliced through the wreckage. Two figures leaned over the sidde - coats flapping, boots slick with seawater. They moved quickly, eyes sharp, scanning the floating bodies with grim purpose. Hongjoong cursed under his breath, swinging a lantern low over the water. "Too late.." he muttered. Seonghwa didn't answer. His jaw thight, pale in the moonlight. They were about to pass another shattered board when Hongjoong's lantern caught movement - a tremble, a gasp.

 "There!" Seonghwa barked. Together they hauled the two boys - barely more than frozen corpses - onto the skiff. San's body was limp, ice crystals forming on his lashes. Yunho was barely breathing, lips blue. "They're alive," Seonghwa said urgently, pressing his ear to San's chest. "Barely. Move!" Hongjoong yanked his coat off and wrapped it around Yunho's shaking body, barking orders. "Get them warm. Get them breathing." The pirates-turned-rescuers worked quickly, ruthlessly, as if they had done this before.

 Later, under the threadbare shelther of the pirate ship's deck, San drifted in and out of consciousness. Someone forced hot broth between his lips. Someone rubbed life back into his frozen hands. Someone murmured things he couldn't quite hear. He woke fully only once that day, gasping, heart hammering. Yeosang. Yeosang. Yeosang. San tried to sit up - tried to run, to swim. To find him - but strong hands pinned him gently back. 

"Easy, boy," Hongjoong said, voice low. "You're safe now. Rest." San's vision blurred again - but he caught the shadow of Yunho nearby, swaddled in thick blankets, breath shallow but steady. Alive. San had saved him. But Yeosang - San's heart broke anew. Was he too late? San's fists tightened in the coarse blanket. No matter what it took. No matter how long it took. He would find Yeosang again.

 San's recovery took days. He floated in a strange haze, somewhere between dreams and nightmares - hearing low voices, feeling rough hands tending him, tasting the salt of his own cracked lips. Sometimes he heard Yunho's breathing nearby, and that was enough to keep him fighting. But everytime San woke fully - truly woke - the hole inside him yarned wider. Where was Yeosang? Had he survived? Was he lost, like so many others?

 The pirate ship was rough and battered, with leaking planks and patched sails - but to San, it felt like a palace compared to the hell he had escaped. The crew was strange but not unkind. Hongjoong and Seonghwa checked on him often, exhanging wordless looks when they thought he wasn't watching. He knew they were worried. They should be. San wasn't eating much, wasn't sleeping much. He was burning from inside out - with grief, with need, with the wild, desperate hope that Yeosang might still be somewhere, waiting.

 One night, he tried to stand. Seonghwa caught him immediately, steadying him before he could collapse. "Where do you think you're going?" Seonghwa said, voice soft but firm. San gritted his teeth, shoving weakly against him. "I have to go. I have to-" he choked on the words. "Yeosang. I have to find him." Seonghwa exchanged a glance with Hongjoong, who stood leaning against the mast, arms crossed. The captain's eyes softened, and after a long moment, he spoke. "You're not strong enough yet," Hongjoong said quietly. "But we're heading for New York. When we get there - we'll help you find him." San blinked up in disbelief, "You will?" Hongjoong nodded once. "You've got fire, boy," he said. "the kind that doesn't die easy. We respect that." San's knees buckled - but Seonghwa eased him down onto a crate before he could fall, wrapping a blanket around his shaking frame. For the first time since he woke up, San let himself breathe. Yeosang was out there. He was alive. He had to be.

 It was dusk when Hongjoon appeared at the door of the cramped crew quarters, silhouetted by amber lantern light. "You two. Up," he said, voice light but with that sharp edge San had come to recognize. "Dinner. In the captain's cabin." San blinked, sitting up slowly. "What? Why?" "Because starving survivors deserve a decent meal," Hongjoong said. "And you both look like you haven't seen real food in days." Yunho peeked out from under his blanket, hair messy and eyes still shadowed, "We haven't." "Then you'll eat. And you'll sit. And you'll give Seonghwa a break from pretending I'm his only company."

 The captain's cabin was surprisingly clean for a pirate ship - maps spread across a table, books stacked high along a volted shelf, and a brass lantern swinging overhead. It smelled like woodsmoke, salt and spice. Seonghwa was already inside, ladling stew into four mismatched bowls. "Don't ask what's in it," he said without looking up. "Just be grateful it's hot." San gave him a faint smile as he took a seat. Yunho followed, stretching stiffly before slumping into the nearest chair. Hongjoong poured something warm and dark into metal cups. "Rum tea. It'll either heal you or kill you." "I'm fine with either," San muttered, half-joking. He felt brittle, like a boy made of ash. Hongjoong raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He sat. For a while, there was only the sound of spoons against bowls. Seonghwa ate slowly, eyes flicking between them all. Yunho devoured his first bowl and reached for seconds. "This is good," he said, amazed. "Is this... garlic?" "I didn't say it was bad stew," Seonghwa muttered.

 Hongjoong watched San for a moment before speaking. "You don't have to talk," he said gently. "But if you want to, we're listening." San looked down at his bowl. He hadn't said much since they were pulled from the water. His thoughts felt tangled, heavy, too sharp to unwrap. But for the first time in days, he didn't feel alone. Yunho reached under the table and gave his wrist a light squeeze. San took a breath, then another. And he began. He told them about the ship. About Yeosang. About the way everything had unraveled. About the silence of the water. The floating bodies. The moment he thought he wouldn't make it. Neither pirate interrupted.  Seonghwa's hands clenched, once, around his spoon. Hongjoong nodded slowly, eyes dark and steady. "You lived," Hongjoong said at last. "That counts as something." San looked at him, unsure what to say. "Now," Seonghwa said softly, "You'll just have to decide what you'll do with that." The room felt warmer after that. Not just from the tea. But from the weight shared. From the quiet understanding between them.

 The ship was still. They would reach New York in the morning, and everyone could feel it - the hush before a new beginning. San couldn't sleep. He sat at the edge of the deck, hands tucked between his legs to keep them warm, eyes on the endless dark sea. It wasn't fear that kept him up anymore. It was everything else: the unknown, the ache in his chest, the weight of almost  losing everything. He didn't hear Seonghwa approach until the man sat beside him, close but quiet, the way he always was. "You'll find him," Seonghwa said, not asking, not hoping - just certain. San didn't answer. He didn't want to speak his doubts aloud. Instead, he asked, "Why this? Why a pirate ship? Why... You and Hongjoong?" Seonghwa smiled, just barely. "Most people don't ask that until after we rob them." San huffed a weak laugh. "I'm not in the mood to be robbed tonight." "No," Seonghwa said. "You've lost enough." There was a pause. Only the wind, the water, the soft creak of sails. Seonghwa looked out to sea, then finally said, "He found me in a wreckage. I was barely conscious, clinging to driftwood. Everyone else had drowned or burned." His voice was calm, but low. Like he'd only just found words to say it.

 "Hongjoong?" San asked softly. Seonghwa nodded, "Already a pirate. Already dangerous. I didn't know who he was - just that he was alone, on a small stolen vessel, and he pulled me out like I was something worth saving." San's chest tightened. "He nursed me back to life without a word," Seonghwa continued. "Fed me. Cleaned my wounds. Never asked what I had lost. Just made room for me beside him. And then... he never asked me to leave." There was a silence so complete that even the wind seemed to hush. San looked over, studying Seonghwa's profile - sharp, still, full of quiet restraint. "And you stayed." "Yes," Seonghwa murmured. "Not because I had nowhere else. But because no one had never looked at me the way he did - like I wasn't broken, just... rebuilding." San swallowed hard, throat thick. "Hongjoong doesn't ask questions. He just sees you." Seonghwa smiled faintly, the memory softening him. "He doesn't say 'you're safe.' But you start to believe it anyway." San lowered his eyes, thinking of the meals, the quiet glances, the way Hongjoong had held his arm when he stumbled. He hadn't said much - but San felt it all the time. "You love him." San said quietly. Seonghwa nodded. "Since the first time he made me laugh." San blinked, "You laugh?" Seonghwa gave him a deadpan look. "Twice. In ten years." San smiled despite himself. Seonghwa leaned back against a crate, gaze turned to the stars. "You'll find him," he said. "Your Yeosang." San's heart thudded. "And if you don't right away... stay with those who help you breathe. Like Hongjoong did for me." Seongha whispered before he got up and left. Leaving San alone with this thoughts.

 The waves lapped gently against the hull, as if the ocean had finally stopped trying to take something from him. San still sat on the deck, his thoughts felt quieter now. Still heavy, still aching - but no longer sharp. Behind him, the deck creacked softly. A pause. Then the weight of a presence at his side. "Seonghwa sent you, didn't he?" San whispered. Hongjoong didn't say anything. He just leaned beside him, setting a small tin cup down between them on the deck. "Warm," he said simply. San looked down. Tea again - probably terrible. He took it anyway. "Thank you," he murmured. Hongjoong gave him a small nod, then looked out at the water. "Seonghwa tells me you're still breathing." San let out a breath, barely a laugh. "He exaggerates." "He doesn't," Hongjoong glanced over. "He likes you." San was quiet for a moment. "Is that rare?" "Seonghwa likes maps, stormy weather and me. That's it." That coaxed a real smile out of San. Short, tired, but real. Hongjoong didn't press him. Just stood there, sipping his own tea, letting silence stretch comfortably between them. San watched him from the corner of his eye - how calm he seemed, how steady. There was something unshakeable about him, not like a captain, bit like the anchor of the whole ship. Not because he commanded power, but because he knew how to be present.

 "You don't talk about your past," San said softly. "I do," Hongjoong replied. "Just not with words." San stared into his tea. "Seonghwa told me you saved him." "I pulled him from the water," Hongjoong corrected. "The rest he did on his own." "He says you saved him anyway." Then, so softly San almost missed it: "He saved me back." They stayed there, the night wrapping around them like a half-familiar song. San dared a question. "Why are you helping me? Helping Yunho?" Hongjoong looked at him then - not with pity, not even with gentle patience. Just understanding. "Because someone helped me once," he said. "And because I know what it means to still believe someone's alive when everyone else tells you they're gone." San's eys burned. "You don't have to say anything," Hongjoong added. "Just... don't let grief speak for you." San nodded. And for the first time since the rescue, he took a deep breath and didn't feel like the ocean would pull it back out of him.

Chapter Text

 The port of New York was grey with morning fog. It rolled over the ship like a second ocean, heavy and cold, turning buildings into ghosts and horns into distant cries. The Statue of Liberty stood distant but defiant, a shadow of green on the horizon, flame lifted against the pale glow of morning. But beneath the stillness, something burned in San's chest - a spark that had survived the wreck, the rescue, the uncertainty. Hope.

 Seonghwa stood beside Hongjoong at the helm, his fingers clutched around a length of rope. Behind them, San gripped the rail so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Yunho stood silently beside him, eyes flickering between the sky and the city like he didn’t know which one he feared more. "Do we even know where to start?" Seonghwa looked at Hongjoong, who looked behing them, watching San and Yunho with worry. "No," he sighed. "But we dock, we walk around and we ask."

 They docked just after sunrise, tying off their ship at a quieter stretch of dock not patrolled too heavily. San was off the ship before it had fully stopped moving. “San!” Seonghwa shouted. “Wait!” But San didn’t wait. His legs hit the docks in a run. He looked like he might keep running forever - through the fog, through the rising smell of coal and fish and rain-wet stone. It was only Yunho’s shout - hoarse and trembling - that stopped him. "San! He isn't here! You'll get lost if you run off without us!"

 San staggered to a halt, chest heaving, bent over with his hands on his knees. His breath came in ragged pulls. Seonghwa caught up and placed a hand on his back. “We’ll find him,” Seonghwa said gently. “But not like this.” San sank to his knees, trembling. "I need to find him. I can't live with this uncertainty anymore." he looked up at Seongha with teary eyes. "I need to know he's alive. I need to see him, I need to hold him." “We’ll check the manifests,” Hongjoong said behind them, now joining them at the dock. “Ships keep passenger logs when they land, especially with something this big.”

 The Titanic. Even saying the name felt like touching a wound that hadn’t yet scabbed.

 They made their way into the city proper, leaving their ship under the watchful eye of a local contact Hongjoong trusted - a grizzled man named Edgar with one hand and a knife scar down his throat. He nodded at Hongjoong once, then sat on a crate by the gangway and began sharpening a dagger without being asked. “Charming,” Seonghwa muttered. Hongjoong only grinned. “That means he likes you.”

 The streets were chaos. Crowded wagons bumped down cobblestone paths, horses neighing as vendors shouted in a dozen languages. The scent of baked bread, coal smoke, tobacco, and fish oil mixed into something dizzying. Seonghwa kept close to Hongjoong, their arms brushing with every step. Yunho had his hands on San’s shoulders, guiding him forward.They started at the White Star Line’s temporary relief office—three blocks inland from the dock. The windows were shuttered, guarded by a pale young man with ink stains on his fingers. He barely looked up from his paperwork when they approached. “Passenger records?” Hongjoong asked. The clerk blinked at him. “For what?” “The Carpathia. Survivors of the Titanic.” The man sighed and set down his pen. “We’ve had hundreds come through. Names are registered inside, but only family is permitted access.” San stepped forward. “I am family. He’s my-” He choked. “He’s all I have.” The clerk hesitated. His eyes swept over San’s soaked coat, his hollow face. Then his voice softened just slightly. “You’ll have to wait. There’s a line. The records aren’t open until afternoon.” San’s shoulders slumped. “We’ll come back,” Seonghwa said gently, pulling San away. They wandered for the next hour, searching hospitals, parishes, soup lines. San clutched every corner of every page they found, scanning for the name:

 Kang Yeosang.

 And found nothing.

 It wasn’t until the fifth hospital - St. Martha’s on Lexington - that a nurse finally paused when they spoke his name. “Yeosang?” she said, tilting her head. “Pretty young man? Didn’t speak much?” “Yes,” San breathed. “Yes! Where—” “He was here. Two days, maybe. Didn’t say who he was looking for, but I could tell he was waiting. Always looking out the window. Pale as salt. He didn’t seem well. When he left, I think he went with the press.” “The press?” Hongjoong repeated. She nodded. “Said he was going to tell his story. I heard he got taken uptown. Some newspaper bought his account of the sinking.”

 Seonghwa felt San tremble beside him. “He’s alive.” But alive in New York meant nothing without a place, a face, a time. Yunho finally spoke, his voice rough and uncertain. “Do you think we could try the newspapers next?” “Which one?” Seonghwa asked. Yunho’s eyes didn’t meet his. “The New York Herald. That’s where-” He swallowed. “That’s where Mingi had always wanted to work at.” Seonghwa looked at Hongjoong, and Hongjoong nodded. “We’ll try them all,” he said. “Starting there.”

 They arrived outside the New York Herald just after dusk. Gas lamps flickered over the front doors, and young boys shouted headlines into the street, waving evening editions above their heads. “Titanic Hero Shares Haunting Account!” Seonghwa snatched one and scanned the article. There, halfway down the page, was a line that stopped his breath. ‘A survivor named Yeosang, soft-spoken and visibly distraught, was among the last rescued from the wreckage. When asked what he remembered, he replied only: “I was looking for him.”’

 San’s knees gave out, and he sank to the curb, tears spilling fast and hot. “He’s looking for me,” he whispered. “He’s still - he still loves me.” Yunho crouched beside him, silent, eyes wide and unblinking. Seonghwa folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. “We’ll find the office. Ask where he went next.” And so they moved again, now not only chasing hope - but following a path someone else had carved already.

 By the time they stood outside the tall newspaper building, the sky had turned fully black. Only a few lights burned in the upper windows. The front desk clerk didn’t recognize the name. But he directed them to a room on the second floor—where interviewees sometimes waited. The man who had spoken with Yeosang had left for the day. “We’ll return in the morning,” Hongjoong said. San didn’t argue. He just whispered, “He’s out there,” and followed them back into the night and to the ship.

 The next day, everyone was up and ready early, heading to town at sunrise. No luck that day. The man who Yeosang had told his story for didn't show up for work, and every other small lead they had turned out to be a dead-end. They tried searching for Mingi too, since a man who owned a small shop near the docks mentioned seeing someone with Mingi's depiction walking around the docks just few hours ago. Yunho had ran out of there at the mention of 'just few hours ago, I think', leaving the others to chase after him.  No luck on finding Mingi that day either, but now both San and Yunho had hope. Hope of their lovers being alive, hope of them waiting for them to return to them. But Seonghwa and Hongjoong couldn't help but be worried about them. What would happen if after everything, they would find out that Yeosang didn't want anything to do with San after the traumatic experience of the sinking, or that Mingi didn't even survive it? 

 San didn’t expect to find Mingi. It happened just outside a bakery on the Lower East Side. San had paused for air, leaning against a lamppost and staring out across the crowded road, when a familiar laugh rose from the stream of voices. He whipped his head toward it, and time stilled. There Mingi was. Taller than San remembered, but unmistakable. Arms full of brown paper bags, talking to a vendor with his long hair tied loosely back and a fond smile tugging his cheeks.

 “Mingi!” San shouted, his voice cracking. Mingi turned, confused at first. But his eyes widened the second they settled on San. The bags tumbled from his arms and onto the sidewalk as he rushed across the street, barely missing a carriage. He collided with San, arms thrown around him so tightly that San nearly fell backwards. “San? Sannie-? What - how?” Mingi gasped, hands gripping at San’s coat like he feared he’d vanish. “You’re alive,” San said, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re - Mingi, you’re alive.” “So are you,” Mingi choked out. He pulled back just enough to stare at San’s face, as if trying to make sure it was real. “But Yeosang - have you found-?” San’s face fell. Mingi stilled. “You haven’t.” “No. Not yet,” San whispered. “But I found you. And someone’s waiting for you.” Mingi blinked, puzzled. San touched his arm gently. “Come back with me. Yunho’s alive. He’s been looking for you too.” Mingi froze. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, trembling. “Yunho-?” San nodded, voice hoarse with relief. “He’s on our ship. Come with me.”

 They didn’t speak much on the way back to the docks. Mingi held tight to San’s sleeve, the city blurring past them like waves crashing behind a ship’s stern. He didn’t ask questions. Just walked faster the closer they got to the pier. The ship loomed, dark and familiar, its hull hugging the dock like it had waited for them. San helped Mingi over the gangplank and called out softly to the deck. “Yunho.” Footsteps came. Quick, heavy ones. Then Yunho appeared. He was barefoot, shirt loose at the neck, his hair wind-tangled from days at searching for any signs of Yeosangor Mingi. He looked at San first - then at the man behind him.

 Time bent.

 Mingi stood frozen on the deck, eyes wide. “Yunho…” “Mingi,” Yunho breathed, stumbling forward. And then they ran. They crashed into each other like two halves of something too long broken. Yunho’s arms wrapped around Mingi’s waist, lifting him half off the ground. Mingi buried his face in Yunho’s neck, sobbing without shame. “I thought you were gone,” Mingi cried. “They said- someone told me the ship went down. I looked for you- I waited-” “I’m here. I’m here now,” Yunho whispered over and over, like he was convincing himself too. “I never stopped looking.”

 They dropped to their knees on the deck, still tangled together. Seonghwa and Hongjoong watched from the shadows near the helm, quiet and unmoving. San stepped back, heart trembling. He’d done one thing right. One heart had found its way home. Hongjoong approached him slowly. “You found him.” San nodded, wiping at his eyes. “He was just… there. I almost missed him.” Hongjoong glanced toward the couple on the deck, his expression unreadable. “Then you didn’t.” Yunho and Mingi remained knelt there, whispering between tears, their foreheads touching, their hands tangled.

 San’s chest ached. Yeosang was still missing. But this—this gave him strength. “Come inside,” Seonghwa said gently, stepping up beside San. “Let’s give them some peace.” They left Mingi and Yunho in the dusk-stained quiet of the deck, walking below where the warmth of lantern light bathed the narrow corridor. As the door to Hongjoong’s cabin opened, Seonghwa reached for San’s hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “We’ll find him,” he said quietly. “You brought one love back. You’ll bring the other.” And for the first time in days, San nodded. He believed it.

Chapter Text

 New York’s sky was the color of wet slate, thick clouds pressing down as if trying to smother the city into silence. It buzzed regardless, ceaseless and impatient. Mingi led the way, his pace urgent yet measured, glancing over his shoulder to make sure San was still behind him. They had left the harbor far behind, and the sea was only a lingering taste in the air now - salt and cold, fading with every footstep further inland. San walked with tension in his jaw and shoulders, his eyes flickering around the streets as if Yeosang might appear from behind every brick wall. The possibility of hope had rooted itself somewhere deep in his chest - fragile, trembling, but alive.

 “Are you sure he’s home?” San asked, voice hushed even though the city roared around them. Mingi shook his head. “He should be. But if he isn’t, we’ll wait. He always comes back.” It has been almost a week since San found Mingi. The first couple of days, Yunho had been posessive over Mingi, not letting the poor guy even bathe alone. But the last few days Mingi has helped San to find Yeosang, and two days ago, he actually caught a glimpse of him. Just a quick look, before he had disappeared inside an apartment building. The day before, Mingi had been sitting around the main door, watching Yeosang leave in the morning, only to return at midday, and then he was gone again, doing who knows what. But now they knew - Yeosang was alive.

 They took a side street, then another, until the city narrowed and quieted. The building they stopped in front of was unremarkable - worn red brick, crooked shutters, three floors stacked like forgotten thoughts. Mingi pushed open the front door and led San up the stairs, the wood creaking beneath their weight. “I’ll… give you space,” Mingi said when they reached the apartment door. “Just remember to be gentle with him.. The first few days he couldn't stop screaming your name in his sleep. He thought, and might still think, that you are dead. So be careful.." San nodded, barely hearing him. With that, Mingi left, leaving San to sit in the staircase alone. And San sat. And he waited.

 And then, just when San had started to doubt if this was even the right building, the door opened. Footsteps. A pause in the hall. Yeosang appeared in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, the shadows clinging to his tired face and rumpled coat. His gaze swept from the floor to the figure in front of him - until it caught. He stopped breathing. San didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

 Yeosang blinked once, then again. He stepped down a step, like a man in a dream. “No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “No, no, not again…” San stood, quietly. “You’re not real,” Yeosang said. “You’re not. I’ve- I’ve seen you before. I’ve dreamed you. You’re not real.” San took a step closer. Yeosang’s eyes were wide, glistening. His whole body shook as he backed up a pace. “Stop-don’t touch me. You’ll disappear if I touch you.” San’s voice broke as he said, “I’m not going anywhere.” Yeosang stumbled, lips trembling. “I can’t… do this again. Please. Don’t disappear.” San crossed the space between them and reached out, gently placing a hand on Yeosang’s shoulder.

 The moment he made contact, Yeosang crumpled. Tears poured from his eyes, his legs giving out as he dropped to his knees on the floor. He clutched at San’s arm, hand curling into the fabric of his sleeve like a man gripping onto reality itself. “San…” he sobbed. “You’re real. You’re real-” San knelt with him, wrapping his arms around him, holding him as Yeosang cried into his chest.

 Neither of them spoke again. There were no words needed in that moment. Only the quiet, the warmth, the breathless miracle of being found. At some point, they got up and went inside Yeosang's apartment - not wanting to spend more time in the cold hallway than was necessary, immediately making their way to the bedroom. Yeosang was shaking - from coldness and from the fact that San was alive. He didn't have to doubt it anymore, the man in front of him is really here.

 The apartment was filled with the hush that followed storms - the kind of stillness that clung to skin and sank into bones. San and Yeosang remained on the bed for what felt like hours, tangled in the quiet intensity of reunion. Yeosang had stopped crying, but his arms hadn’t left San’s waist, and San hadn’t tried to pull away. They simply stayed like that - holding and held, not ready to break whatever spell had allowed them this impossible moment. At some point, Yeosang finally leaned back, cupping San's cheeks, eyes still rimmed red. “You shouldn’t be here.” San managed a smile - soft and quiet. “I’m exactly where I should be.” Yeosang shook his head. “You don’t understand. I-” He looked away, breathing shakily. “I thought you were dead.”

 San’s smile faded. “I almost was.” He told him about the water, the cold, the black horizon that swallowed him whole. About being pulled from the ocean by strangers, saved by a ship that shouldn’t have been there. About a pirate captain with sharp eyes and quiet kindness, and a ship that felt more like home than anything on land. Yeosang listened in silence, only breaking when San said Hongjoong’s name. “I’ve heard of him,” Yeosang murmured. “They say he’s a ghost. A myth.” San gave a small laugh. “He’s not. He’s… complicated.”

 A beat passed. Then two. “Why did you come?” Yeosang asked, voice barely audible. San blinked. “To find you.” “You didn’t even know if I was alive.” “I didn’t care.” Yeosang looked away again, eyes full of some internal battle. “You should have moved on.” San leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Yeosang’s. “I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. Even if you were gone, I needed to try. I needed to know.” Another breath, and then: “I needed you.” Yeosang closed his eyes, his hands tightening in San’s shirt. “I tried to forget,” he whispered. “I tried to tell myself it wasn’t real. That what we had… it couldn’t have survived everything that happened.” San smiled again, softer this time. “Then let’s prove it did.”

 They didn’t kiss. Not yet. The moment didn’t ask for it. But they held each other tighter, as if to say: I found you. I won’t lose you again. Outside the building, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows like the sea calling them home.

 Morning drifted in quietly, as if afraid to disrupt the fragile peace that had settled in the apartment. San had dozed off sometime during the night, his body curled protectively around Yeosang’s on the bed. The windows let in the pale gray of the New York sky, and though the city outside buzzed with movement, inside the apartment everything was still.

 Yeosang hadn’t slept. He hadn’t dared. He’d stayed awake long after San's breathing had evened out, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, tracing the shape of him with his eyes as if to memorize him all over again. Two months. That’s how long it had been since the icy claws of the Atlantic had tried to take San from him. Two months since the world broke open and spilled out a silence he thought would never be filled. Now San was here, warm and alive. And Yeosang was not the same. He waited until San stirred, until his fingers twitched slightly against Yeosang’s arm and his lashes fluttered open. San blinked blearily, then smiled the moment he saw him. “You’re still here,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep. “I am,” Yeosang murmured. They stayed like that for a moment, eyes locked, as if letting go would unravel them.

 Then, Yeosang inhaled shakily and sat up, pulling the blanket more tightly around his frame. “San,” he began, voice uncertain. “There’s something I need to tell you.” San pushed himself upright, concerned already. “What is it?” Yeosang didn’t meet his eyes. His hands curled in his lap, fingers twisting into the blanket. “I thought I would never see you again,” he said, as if confessing a sin. “And when I realized you were gone… when I thought you had died… something happened. Something changed.” San reached for him gently. “Yeosang-” “I’m pregnant,” Yeosang said, quietly. Then louder, more firmly: “It’s yours.”

 The words seemed to suspend the world. San stared at him, breath caught mid-inhale, like the floor had suddenly dropped beneath him. Yeosang finally looked up. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t even realize until I’d been sick for weeks. I… I kept waiting for the sickness to pass, but it didn’t. And then I knew.” He waited for San to speak. To react. To leave.

 But San didn’t move. He reached forward slowly and pressed a hand - hesitant, trembling - against Yeosang’s stomach. “You’re… serious?” Yeosang nodded, lips parting in a breathless sound that wasn’t quite a sob. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” For a moment, San was silent. Processing. Then he did something Yeosang hadn’t expected. He smiled. And not the bright, mischievous grin that always came before trouble - but a soft, awestruck smile, full of something deeper than relief. Full of love. “You’re carrying our child,” he whispered. “Yeosang, that’s… that’s everything. That’s-” He broke off with a small, breathy laugh, like he was going to cry. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” Yeosang let out a choked sound and leaned into San’s touch as San pulled him close, arms wrapping around his waist. “I thought I was alone,” Yeosang breathed into San’s shoulder. “Never again,” San whispered back. “I swear it.”

The world outside moved on. But inside the small, quiet apartment, something extraordinary had begun again - something soft, something steady, something alive.

Something worth surviving for.

Chapter Text

 It was Yeosang’s idea to find them a house near the ocean. “I don’t want to be far from it,” he said softly, one morning, wrapped in San’s arms in the bed they were still renting by the harbor. “Even after everything, I think... the sea saved us too.” San didn’t argue. He just kissed Yeosang’s hair and murmured, “Then let’s find something close enough that you can hear it when you sleep.”

 They spent days walking through coastal neighborhoods, hand in hand. Some houses were too big and cold - all grand staircases and echoing rooms, the kind Yeosang had grown up in. “It’s beautiful,” he’d say politely, then lean into San’s shoulder and whisper, “Too lonely.” Some were tiny but had soul - creaky wood floors and chipped paint, old porches that leaned with time. San loved those best. 

 They finally found it the next day - a pale blue cottage, with wild roses climbing up the porch rails and windows that faced the ocean. It smelled like salt and old books. The floor creaked. The fireplace worked. And from the attic, you could see the waves crash in slow, steady rhythm. Yeosang ran his fingers over the chipped windowsill and whispered, “It feels like somewhere you could grow.” “Us,” San said, stepping in behind him and wrapping his arms around Yeosang’s waist, placing his hands on his growing belly. “Somewhere we can grow. Somewhere our child can grow.” Yeosang tilted his head back, their cheeks touching. “Then let’s stay.”

 The house sits near the edge of the sea, tucked into the embrace of coastal cliffs and misty salt air. It’s small, just two bedrooms and a porch that creaks with every breeze, but it is theirs. White curtains flutter from open windows. The scent of the ocean mixes with the faint aroma of ginger tea.

 Yeosang and San had waited a few weeks after settling in before telling everyone. It was Seonghwa who first noticed - Yeosang didn’t eat the pickled herring he used to adore, and San hovered more than usual, his eyes always flitting to Yeosang’s stomach like he was watching the tide come in. Hongjoong hadn’t said a word, just smiled faintly and brought over a hand-carved crib the next day.

 “Are you sure about this?” San asked, glancing at Yeosang. He’d asked him this question several times over the past few days, and every time, Yeosang answered with the same serene smile. “I’m sure,” Yeosang said softly. “It’s time to tell them.”

 They had decided to invite everyone over for lunch, so they  could finally tell their friends the big news, even though Seonghwa and Hongjoong already knew.

 Once the others sat down at the table, San held onto Yeosang's hand, looking at their friends. "We have some news." Yunho looked up from his food, searching his face. “What’s wrong?” “Yeosang…” San began, but he didn’t need to finish the sentence. Yeosang’s gentle hand on his shoulder was all the answer Yunho needed. “What?” Yunho’s eyes widened, and his gaze shifted to Yeosang. Yeosang smiled warmly, his hand resting protectively over his stomach. “I’m pregnant,” Yeosang said softly.

  Mingi blinked, his expression caught between shock and joy. “Pregnant?” he repeated, his voice rising in disbelief. “Wait, that means…” San grinned, his heart lighter than it had been in months. “Yes. It’s mine.” Tears welled up in Mingi's eyes, and he immediately embraced both San and Yeosang, hugging them tightly. “I’m so happy for you two. I can’t believe it.”

 The moment was sweet and brief, but it was full of the promise of everything to come. When they pulled away, Yunho stepped forward, his own eyes glistening with emotion. “I knew it,” Yunho said, his voice full of affection. “I could see it in the way you looked at each other. I’m so happy for both of you.”

 Seonghwa and Hongjoong stood by, watching the emotional exchange with quiet smiles. Hongjoong clapped San on the back and gave Yeosang an encouraging look. “You’re both family now,” Hongjoong said. “And we’ll be there for you, no matter what.” Seonghwa nodded in agreement, his gaze soft. “You’re not alone anymore.”

 San smiled and turned to Yeosang. “We’re not alone,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “We have each other. And we have all of you.”

 The rest of the day went by Yeosang answering questions about how the pregnancy has been and how he is feeling about it, while San sat beside him, a proud smile on his face as he watched Yeosang glow. As the night fell, San and Yeosang had a quiet moment alone later, sitting on the small deck in their backyard beneath the stars. Yeosang rested his head on San’s shoulder, and San kissed his temple. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Yeosang whispered. “We are,” San replied. “And it’s going to be amazing.”

 The pregnancy had been gentle, almost too gentle, as if the world itself dared not cause them more grief. When Yeosang first felt the flutter, San had dropped to his knees, hands trembling on his belly like he was touching a miracle. “He kicks like you,” Yeosang had said once, late in the night when San was holding him through a storm, one hand on the small curve of his abdomen. “I hope he laughs like you,” San had replied. “And dreams big.”

 The storm passed overnight. By morning, the sky had cleared into the soft blue Yeosang always loved best - pale and endless, brushed with clouds that drifted lazily like sails. The sea was calm again, its tides breathing slow against the shore.

 San woke first, startled by the stillness. Then he heard it - a sharp intake of breath beside him, followed by a low, quiet moan that Yeosang tried - and failed to stifle. “Sangie?” San whispered, heart lurching as he sat up. Yeosang was curled on his side, face buried in the pillow, one hand gripping the sheets. “It’s time,” he said, voice tight but steady. “I’ve been timing them… for a while now.” San stared at him, wide-eyed. “You- You what? Since when?!” Yeosang gave a breathless, pained smile. “Since around three a.m. But you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you until I was sure.”

 San scrambled into action, practically tripping over himself to grab towels, hot water, the birthing kit they'd prepared weeks ago with the help of a local midwife. They’d chosen a home birth, wanting privacy and warmth, but now the reality of it settled like fire in his chest. He was terrified.

 Yeosang sat propped against the headboard, knees drawn up, hair plastered to his temple with sweat. His breaths came in sharp, measured bursts. “Hey,” San murmured, kneeling beside the bed and pressing a hand to Yeosang’s swollen belly. “You’re okay. You’re doing so well.”

“I know,” Yeosang gritted, wincing as another contraction rolled through him. San laughed wetly, brushing Yeosang’s hair back with shaking fingers. “You’re perfect.”

The hours blurred.

 The pain grew sharper. Yeosang labored fiercely but quietly, his fingers laced with San’s, jaw clenched through every wave of pressure. San whispered to him between contractions - stories of the sea, of the way Yeosang had looked the night they made love for the first time after surviving the Titanic.

 “Just think,” San whispered, lips trembling, “he’s going to look like you.” Yeosang shook his head faintly. “He’s going to have your smile. It’ll be the first thing I look for.”

 It was almost dusk when Yeosang began to bear down in earnest, sweat slicking his brow, teeth biting into his bottom lip as the world narrowed to a single point of aching, blinding pressure. “San-!” he cried out suddenly, and San was there in an instant, holding him, grounding him, eyes wet. “I’m here,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’ve got this, baby. Just a little more.”

There was blood. Heat. An unbearable stretch - and then, like a wave cresting and finally breaking, release. A wail pierced the air. Yeosang collapsed against San, breath shuddering, tears rolling silently down his cheeks as San let out a sound between a sob and a laugh.

 “It’s a boy,” San whispered, voice breaking completely as he held the newborn in trembling hands. “He’s here. He’s-he’s perfect.” Yeosang looked down through tears, exhausted but luminous. Their son was pink and furious, tiny fingers curled, lungs strong. He reached out, and San placed the baby on his chest. Their child quieted instantly, lulled by the sound of Yeosang’s heartbeat.

 “I felt him inside me for so long,” Yeosang whispered, cradling him close. “But I didn’t know what it would be like… to hold him.” “You’re amazing,” San whispered, pressing a kiss to Yeosang’s temple. “You’re both… amazing.”

 Outside, the waves lapped against the sand like a lullaby. Inside, San wrapped them in blankets, one arm around Yeosang’s shoulders, the other across both their chests. Their son slept between them, tiny and warm. Yeosang turned his face toward San, eyes soft, dazed with love and exhaustion. “What should we name him?” he asked.

 San kissed him slowly, reverently. “How about… Hajun?” “Hajun,” he whispered. “Then that’s who he’ll be.”

 Few weeks pass by quickly. Hajun was a healthy and happy baby, and finally his uncles were coming to see him. A lullaby hums low in Yeosang’s throat as he rocks gently in the chair by the window, the baby asleep in his arms.

 “Is he out?” San’s voice floats in from the doorway. He’s barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair sun-warmed and windswept. There’s sand still clinging to his ankles. Behind him, the others trail in - Yunho and Mingi first, then Seonghwa with his quiet smile and Hongjoong with arms full of groceries and a flower San picked from the cliffs.

 Yeosang looks up, eyes glowing softly. “Out like a light,” he murmurs, shifting just enough so they can glimpse the tiny bundle on his chest - soft skin, a head of dark hair, the barest suggestion of his father’s mouth.

 Mingi’s already sniffling. Yunho laughs under his breath and hands him a handkerchief. “I thought I was the one who cried at everything,” he teases but was quickly turned quiet when Mingi glared at him through his tears.

 Now, the six of them sit around the kitchen table, the baby sleeping peacefully in a basket beside Yeosang. They share bread and stories. San shows off the tiny booties he tried - and failed - to knit. Mingi makes up wild tales of pirates and underwater kingdoms to make the baby laugh someday. Yunho and Seonghwa hum a soft melody while Hongjoong reads aloud from an old leather journal they found on the docks.

 No one talks about the ship anymore. Not often. But sometimes Yeosang wakes with tears in his eyes and San holds him close and murmurs, “We survived.” And Yeosang kisses his chest where his heart beats steady, and answers, “We lived.”

Outside, the tide brushes against the shore, gentle and forgiving. Inside, there is warmth, and love, and the sound of soft breathing. The ocean had taken many things. But not this. Never this. Because even if the weight of water had seemed unbearable at the time, they had survived it in the end.