Chapter Text
≈ ONE ≈
“Titanic was called the ship of dreams.
And it was.
It really was …”
≈ Southhampton, England, April 10, 1912 ≈
≈ Ext. Southhampton Dock ≈
Sabo stepped out of the sleek, silver-grey Daimler-Benz like someone reluctantly arriving at this own execution – though, naturally, he was impeccably dressed for the occasion.
He offered the White Star Line official a solemn nod, a gesture of thanks as the man graciously held open the door.
Emerging from the vehicle, he tipped his hat back slightly, allowing his gaze to drift over the ship they were about to board. The Titanic.
He scrunched his nose.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”, he said flatly. “It doesn’t look any bigger than the Mauretania.”
His tone was dripping with sarcasm, but as he turned his attention to his fiancé, Rob, he spotted the familiar spark in his eyes.
A lecture was imminent.
Rob’s lips curled in preparation to launch what was supposed to be an educational insight that, unsurprisingly, no one had asked for. Sure enough, he inhaled and opened his mouth.
“You can be blasé about some things, sweetheart, but not about the Titanic.”, he said, stroking his precious beard. “It’s over one hundred feet longer than the Mauretania. And far more luxurious. It has squash courts, a Parisian café … even Turkish baths.”
Of course! Turkish baths. What an enlightenment.
And that’s Rob for you. The sort of man people wrote glowing letters home about. What a well-dressed, well-connected man! So clever, so composed! He knows what a Turkish bath is! A catch, by most standards.
It used to drive Sabo up the wall. The charade. The superiority. The hollow compliments. But now?
He didn’t even bother pointing it out.
The tickets were paid for. The ring was on his finger.
“Your son is much too hard to impress.”, Rob remarked to Sabo’s mother, Didit, who descended from the touring car behind them like royalty visiting the colonies.
Since her husband’s death, Rob had graciously taken it upon himself to fill the role of man of the house. Or something adjacent to it. Sabo resisted the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes clean out of his skull.
His mother squinted up at the looming mountain of steel before them.
“So this is the ship they say is unsinkable.”
“It is unsinkable.”, Rob corrected. “God himself couldn’t sink the ship.”
Around them swarmed an entire entourage of rich Americans. Smelling expensive. Complete with servants trailing by their sides.
Their own valet, Kaku - tall, young and likely too competent for the circus he’d been hired into – calmly motioned them towards the gangway.
A flustered White Star Line porter intercepted them breathlessly, seemingly disrupted by the last-minute loading.
“Sir, you’ll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, round that way -“
Rob dispassionately handed him a crisp fiver. The porter’s eyes widened; reverence settled in. The money disappeared into his jacket like it had never existed.
“I put my faith in you, good sir.” He gestured vaguely towards Kaku. “See my man.”
“Yes, sir. My pleasure, sir.”
While Kaku began negotiating logistics – These trunks here, and twelve more in the Daimler. All to the staterooms. – Rob had already breezed ahead, pocket watch in hand, leaving the minions to scramble.
“We’d better hurry. This way.”
Sabo and his mother followed as he indicated the first-class gangway, weaving between vehicles, handcarts, frantic porters and well-wishers. Above them was the elevated boarding bridge reserved for elites – twenty feet up and blissfully detached from the smelly press of the dockside working class crowd.
“Honestly, Rob.”, Didit huffed, lifting her skirt to avoid a filthy puddle. “If you weren’t forever booking everything at the last instant, we could have gone through the terminal like civilized people instead of running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family.”
“All part of my charm.”, Rob said breezily. “At any rate, it was my darling fiancé’s beauty rituals that delayed us.”
He shot Sabo a polished smile, resting a hand on the small of his back like he was claiming property.
“You told me to change.”, Sabo muttered.
“I couldn’t let you wear black on sailing day, sweet pea.”, Rob crooned, giving him a little squeeze. “It’s bad luck.”
“I felt like black.”
Rob shook his head with a light sigh.
“Here I’ve pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history and you act as if you’re attending your own funeral.”
Sabo said nothing.
It might as well be.
≈ Ext. Southhampton Dock ≈
≈ Pub, at the terminal buildings ≈
The pub was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with dockworkers, ship’s crew, and third-class hopefuls clinging to one last pint before boarding. The scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke clung to the air.
In the back corner, surrounded by empty mugs, two Swedish men bickered loudly in their native tongue.
Across from them sat two young men in their twenties, poker cards in hand, eyes locked in silent communication over the scratched wooden table.
Ace’s hair was a little too long for the standards of times. His shirt was rumpled, his boots dusty, his freckles and smirk permanently fixed.
Deuce didn’t look much better – shirt wrinkled, face weary - though he had taken the time to pull on his signature black mask before the game. A small sign of decency. Or maybe just superstition.
“You stupid fish head.”, one of the Swedes growled. “I can’t believe you bet our tickets.”
“You lost our money.”, the other hissed. “I’m just trying to get it back. Now shut up and take a card.”
The game had been grinding on for a while. A chaotic mountain of mixed currency — francs, pounds, krona, a few desperate American dollars — cluttered the table. And perched right at the top:
Two third-class tickets for the RMS Titanic.
“Hit me again, Sven.”, Ace drawled, eyes lazily scanning the table.
Sven dealt with a grunt.
Ace slipped the card into his hand. His expression didn’t flicker.
Deuce licked his lips, waving off the next card, clearly regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment – starting with trusting Ace and ending with waking up in the morning.
In the distance, the ship’s whistle shrieked again.
It sounded like opportunity. Or doom. Depending on how the next minute played out.
“Jesus.”, Deuce muttered, glancing nervously out the pub’s narrow window at the looming ship.
Ace cracked his knuckles.
“The moment of truth, boys. Somebody’s life is about to change.”
With a sharp inhale, Deuce laid his cards down. So did the Swedes. All eyes turned to Ace, whose cards remained pressed against his chest.
“Let’s see …”, the freckled man slowly scanned the table.
“Deuce - niente. Olaf - you’ve got a squat. Sven … uh-oh. Two pair.”
He pursed his lips, sucking in a breath.
“Yikes. That’s rough.”
Deuce blinked in irritation. “What’s rough?”
Ace didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted his hat.
“Ace.”, the blue-haired man pressed, starting to panic. “Ace. What’s rough? What do you have?!”
The freckled man turned towards him, flashing a wicked grin.
“Oh? Little old me?”
With a flourish, he slapped a full house down on the table.
Silence.
Even the Swedes were too stunned to swear.
“Sorry, Deuce.”, Ace sang, grabbing the tickets off the pile and waving them dramatically under his friend’s nose. “You’re not gonna see your mama for a long time!”
Deuce stared at the cards on the table like his vision was betraying him.
“What the fuck.”, he whispered unbelievingly - then louder, stumbling to his feet. “What the FUCK?!”
Ace burst out laughing, stepped forward, and grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a wild shake.
“We’re going to America, baby!”
Not a second later, the table exploded into shouting in several languages - English, Swedish, incomprehensible curses.
Ace let go of Deuce and started raking the winnings into his coat pockets with no shame whatsoever.
“Sorry boys. Three of a kind and a pair. I’m high and you’re dry and …”
“WE’RE going to-”, Deuce chimed in, snatching a last crumpled dollar off the table.
“L’AMERICA!”, they both shouted in unison, arms flung wide.
Across the table, where the enthusiasm wasn’t shared, Olaf balled up a fist, fully prepared to clobber Ace. But at the last second, the freckled man docked, and the fist swung around and socked Sven instead, knocking the poor man clean off his chair.
He didn’t even protest. He just sat there on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
Meanwhile, Ace and Deuce had already descended into celebration. They started chanting, hopping in place like lunatics.
Lastly, Ace pressed a big smooch onto the tickets in his hands and jumped onto Deuce’s back, who rode him around the pub like they’d just won the lottery.
“We’re going home!”, the freckled man shouted. “To the land of the free and the home of real hot dogs, Deuce!”
“See?! That’s my destiny, like I told you!”, the blue-haired man puffed, carrying him toward the door. “To America. To be a millionaire! You understand?! To America!”
The pubkeeper next to them - unimpressed and holding a mop - pointed casually toward the window.
“No, mate. The Titanic’s going to America. In five minutes.”
The two men froze mid-celebration.
Ace leapt off Deuce’s back. “Shit.”
“Shit.”, Deuce parroted.
He grabbed Ace by the collar and yanked him toward the door. “Hurry! The Titanic waits for no man!”
Ace fumbled with the door, half-tripping over a chair on his way out, then grabbed Deuce by the arm and hauled him after.
“We are no man, Deuce!”
≈ Ext. Southhampton Dock ≈
≈ At the terminal ≈
They came to a halt just outside the terminal gates, breathing hard, eyes wide — and there she was.
The Titanic stood above them like something out of a dream. A floating palace of steel and elegance, her white exterior catching the sun, the gold-lettered name at her bow sparkling. The gangways swarmed with passengers, porters, officers. Somewhere in the background, an ensemble was playing a tune.
But even amid the chaos, the ship remained monumental. Untouchable.
Deuce gawked.
Ace let out a low whistle. “She’s big.”
“She’s stupid big.”
“We’re getting on that.”
And they took off again – dodging crying children and nearly tripping over a goat - until they reached the edge of the gangway.
A white-uniformed officer stood there, about to detach the bridge.
“WAIT! We’re passengers!”, Ace yelled, his voice hoarse from running.
Red-faced and panting, he waved the tickets.
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Have you been through the inspection queue?”
“Of course! Anyway, we don’t have lice.”, the freckled man said quickly, flashing his brightest, most disarming grin. “We’re Americans.”
He threw a glance at Deuce. “Both of us.”
The officer looked between them — at Ace’s sweat-slick hair, Deuce’s mask, the general aura of definitely-not-inspected — and sighed.
“Right. Come aboard.”
Behind him, a second officer reluctantly reattached the gangway and held out a hand.
Ace passed over the tickets, still slightly damp from being clutched mid-sprint. The man scanned them, pen ready to log the names into the passenger’s list.
“Gunderson.”, he read aloud. “And … Gunderson?”
His eyes flicked up to Deuce. Deuce stared back with the tight, hopeful smile of someone mid identity theft.
There was a moment of hesitation, but eventually, the officer handed the tickets back.
Ace grabbed Deuce by the sleeve with a grin. “Come on now, Sven.”
The gangway closed shut behind them. And as soon as their feet hit the ship’s deck, they both let out a whoop of victory. They sprinted down the bright-white corridor, grinning precisely like two idiots who’d just gambled their way onto the Titanic.
As they slowed, the freckled man elbowed his companion.
“Deuce, we might just be the luckiest bitches in the world.”
As the Titanic pulled away from Southampton, there were whistles. Shouted goodbyes. The distant ringing of a bell.
Passengers were leaning against the railings, watching the dock slip away beneath them. Some waved. Others stood in silence. The weight of departure was slowly setting in.
On land, people stood motionless as the ship grew smaller, until it disappeared into the haze that hung above the water.
For those on board, it was the beginning of something new. Some had scraped together everything to be there. Others had barely noticed they'd boarded at all.
On the lower levels, third-class passengers were led down narrow stairwells into the inside of the ship. The corridors were long, painted in white and filled with the noises of movement – footsteps, conversations in multiple languages, trunks being opened and shut.
The cabins themselves were simple. Compact. Each had four bunks, lit by small bulbs and cooled by metal walls. Exposed pipes ran overhead. Families unpacked in tight quarters, children fighting over beds and parents trying to arrange order in a space that never meant to hold so many people in the first place.
Multiply a third-class cabin by ten – and you receive the average size of a first-class suite.
With walls of polished wood, carpets at every step, warm and even lighting from glass chandeliers hanging off the ceilings. Decorative pieces standing round the hallways, polished mirrors lining the corridors. Separate bedrooms, wardrobes, private baths and sitting rooms furnished like high-end hotels. With staff – lots of staff – moving through the halls, delivering luggage and reading requests off the lips of the wealthy. The powerful. Those in fur coats and leather gloves, discussing politics while sipping on their fresh orange juices and champagne.
Here, the world was calm.
Effortlessly detached from the rest of the ship – and the people in it.
≈ Int. First-Class Suite B-52-56 ≈
≈ Sitting room ≈
≈ Late afternoon ≈
In the sitting room, the so-called Millionaire Suite, a room service waiter - crisp uniform, eyes trained not to linger - poured champagne into a tulip glass and handed it to Sabo with a professional, silent bow.
The blonde took it without looking up, gaze fixed on the small stack of paintings spread across the nearby table.
They were recent acquisitions. Modern. Abstract. Messy. Interesting. Monet. Degas. A few abstract works. Cubist, Sabo believed, and unapologetically strange.
He tilted his head at the last one, eyeing it curiously. Respectfully.
From the covered deck just outside, Rob’s voice drifted in – smooth. Smug. Increasingly hard to ignore.
“Those mud puddles were certainly a waste of money.”
Sabo didn’t look up from the painting.
“Wrong.”, he replied. “They’re fascinating. Like a dream. There’s truth without logic. What’s his name again?”
He stood up, stepping closer, gloved hand behind his back, squinting at the signature. “Picasso.”
Rob stepped into the room, his cologne immediately taking up all the space.
“Trust me, he’ll never amount to a thing. At least they were cheap.”
Sabo hummed simply to end the conversation without starting a new one. He picked up the painting and turned sideways, pretending to rearrange it, while he truly was using it as a shield between himself and his fiancé’s presence.
Mercifully, his maid was still in the room, quietly hanging his waistcoats into the wardrobe. A necessary buffer against yet another debate about art with a man who believed taste could be measured in dollar bills.
“It smells so brand new in here.”, the maid said dreamily, pausing to take in the space. “Like they built it just for us. I mean … just to think that tonight, when I crawl into the sheets, I’ll be the first—”
She didn’t get to finish.
Rob, leaning against the doorway now with arms folded and a smirk curling, cut in without any sense of embarrassment – though a little shame would have been very welcomed.
“And when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I’ll still be the first.”
A shiver ran down Sabo’s spine. He froze, fingers tightening around the edge of the painting’s frame until his gloves squeaked against it.
Bastard, he repeated it in his head at least five times. Shameless, disgusting bastard.
The maid, caught between the weight of the remark and the sudden vacuum of silence, cleared her throat and took the universal escape route.
“Excuse me.”, she mumbled hastily, edging around Rob and out of the room.
Sabo didn’t watch her leave. He was too busy trying not to flinch at the cold hand that had settled on his shoulder.
This wasn’t intimacy. It was inventory.
His breath brushing Sabo’s ear, Rob leaned in.
“The first and only.”, he whispered as the blonde held his breath.
“Forever.”
≈ Int. Palm Court Restaurant ≈
≈ Late afternoon ≈
At one of the longer tables of the immaculate Palm Court, a group of first-class passengers had gathered for lunch. Their voices easily drifted over silverware, wine glasses and music being played live by a small ensemble at the end of the room.
Franky, one of the shipbuilders of the Titanic, gestured animatedly from the head of the table.
“… and our master architect, Mr. Iceburg here, designed her from the keel plates up.”
All heads turned to the handsome gentleman who looked younger than his 39 years. A clean-cut, obviously educated graduate of the renowned Water 7 Shipbuilders.
“Well, I may have knocked her together.”, he said, adjusting his collar. “But the idea was Franky’s. He envisioned a steamer so grand, so luxurious, that its supremacy would never be challenged.” He laid his palm against the table. “And here she is. Willed into solid reality.”
There was a round of polite applause. Yes, yes. Fabulous.
Lady Koala – a well-known socialite among Rob’s circles - was halfway through her second glass of champagne and clearly past pretending to be impressed. She fanned herself lazily.
“Why are ships always being called she?”, she asked, looking around the table. “Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighted in tonnage?”
A round of laughter moved through the group.
“Just another example of the men setting the rules their way.”, the red head added without missing a beat.
Sabo, sitting across, smiled into his glass.
He hadn’t known the woman for long, but he already liked her. Then again, he liked anyone that managed to make this pretentious crowd laugh without flattering it.
A waiter arrived, leaning in to take their orders.
Menus shifted. Names of dishes were muttered.
Sabo used the moment to reach for the silver cigarette case beside his glass, thumbed it open, and slid one between his lips.
He hadn’t even struck the lighter yet.
“You know I don’t like that, Sabo.”, his mother said pointedly from the side.
He lit it anyway.
A flame. A drag.
Rob reached over from the other side without looking, plucked the cigarette from the blonde’s mouth and stubbed it out into the ashtray with two fingers.
“He knows.”, he said smoothly, turning towards the waiter who pretended not to have witnesses the scene unfold.
“We’ll both have the lamb.”, he announced. “With a little mint sauce.”
Only after the waiter had walked did he ask: “You like lamb, don’t you, sweet pea?”
Sabo swirled the dark wine in his glass without answering. Without looking. His eyes stayed fixed on the crimson surface, but his pulse was hammering.
Koala, who was watching the dynamic, smiled.
“You gonna cut his meat for him too, Lucci?”
Rob paused, preparing a response.
The red head didn’t have the patience to wait for it.
“Who came up with the name Titanic? You, Franky?”
Franky straightened. “Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. Because it’s all about size, isn’t it? Size means stability, luxury … and safety.“
Sabo saw his opportunity. He set his wine glass down.
“Do you know of Dr. Freud?”, he asked suddenly, conversationally. “His ideas on male obsession with size might be particularly enlightening for some of the gentlemen at this table.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Iceburg nearly choked on his breadstick, turning red as he tried to contain his laughter. A clink of cutlery followed as someone dropped a fork. A few others blinked in quiet disbelief.
Sabo’s mother looked as though she might faint.
“My God, Sabo! What’s gotten into-“
“Excuse me.”, he muttered, already rising from his seat.
He didn’t storm out. He just left.
Didit watched him go – mortified as could be.
“I do apologize.”, she offered after taking pause, attempting to preserve some dignity.
Koala lifted her glass with a smirk, unbothered.
“He’s a pistol, Lucci. You sure you can handle him?”
Rob smoothed the napkin on his lap, then reached for the cutlery.
“Well.”, he said coolly. “I may have to be more selective about what he reads from now on.”
≈ Ext. Third-Class Deck ≈
≈ Late afternoon ≈
Ace sat on a bench in the sun, his posture relaxed, knees drawn up to support a worn leather-bound sketchpad - the only thing he owned that couldn’t be replaced. His conte crayon moved in rapid strokes across the page, his freckles slightly scrunched in concentration.
On the lower rung of the rail, an emigrant from Manchester stood with his daughter – no more than three. She leaned back with her arms outstretched, watching the seagulls above her head.
His sketch captured them perfectly. Not just the similarity, but the moment. The kind of moment no one thinks to preserve until it’s gone.
Behind him, Deuce leaned in to study the sketch, not saying much, just nodding appreciatively.
Nearby, a young Irishman leaned against the rail, watching as a crewmember passed by, being dragged off balance by three small dogs in matching jackets.
“That’s typical.”, he voiced towards the two men at the bench. “First-class dogs come down here to take a shit.”
The freckled man glanced up, a grin pulling at the edges of his mouth.
“That’s so we know where we rank in the scheme of things.”
The Irishman chuckled dryly. “Like we could ever forget.”
Ace let the words drift past him. His gaze wandered across the well deck - all noise and life, a patchwork of languages and lives in motion.
Children ran barefooted. A woman in a headscarf handed out fruit from her coat pockets. Somewhere, someone played a harmonica.
And then, Ace’s eyes lifted.
High above, on the aft railing of the B-Deck promenade, a figure stood alone.
A young man. Blonde. Crème-colored suit. Perfectly pressed. White gloves wrapped neatly around the railing, as if afraid to let go, staring down at the water.
He looked like he’d stepped out of a different world - and maybe he had.
They were technically across from each other. Sixty feet, maybe. A single ship’s length, but it might as well have been a country.
Ace couldn’t take his eyes off him if he wanted to.
He watched as the man took off his elaborate hat. It was a white … thing. Cylinder-like; decorated with some more things Ace couldn’t name. The blonde turned it over in his hands once, as if inspecting its absurdity, and then …
… he tossed it over the rail.
He watched it sail far down the water, being carried away. A flash of white in the vast ocean.
Ace didn’t know why – and hell knows he didn’t need to know – but he was captivated.
The man looked like something out of a romantic novel. Something tragic. Something isolated. He stood like he was weighed down by his own silence. By things unspoken.
God, if only he could hear him speak.
Ace didn’t notice Deuce and the Irishman falling quiet beside him - the way they exchanged a grin as they caught the look on his face upon seeing the mysterious blonde.
And then – like gravity had shifted – the blonde turned and looked down. Directly at him, that was.
His heart dropped straight through the deck.
He was caught. Shamelessly caught.
But he didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare blink.
And the man didn’t look away. Not right away. He did – briefly. Then he looked back once more, like he was making sure he truly was being shamelessly stared at.
Their eyes met for a long, strange moment. Across the gulf between decks. Classes. Worlds.
Someone appeared behind the blonde – a man. A man, well-dressed, reaching for his arm.
A man?
The blonde recoiled, jerking away. They started an argument. Ace couldn’t hear, but he could see.
A man.
He watched the blonde storm off, disappearing along the promenade without another glance.
Frozen, Ace stared at the spot where he had been a second ago.
Never in his life had he been so fascinated by someone he didn’t know.
“Forget it, boyo.”, the Irishman beside him said, giving him a good-natured shove to thud him back into reality.
“It’s more likely angels’ll fly out your arse than you getting close to the likes of that."