Work Text:
The first thing Yosano notices about her is the colour.
Not her face.
Not her dress.
The colour.
Deep crimson silk draped over elegant shoulders, rich enough to rival the sunset bleeding across the Atlantic horizon. Against the sea of cream gowns, black coats, and polished jewellery that filled the First-Class promenade deck, she looked almost unreal.
Like someone had painted her there.
A deliberate brushstroke.
A masterpiece among sketches.
Yosano lowers her sketchbook.
And stares.
The woman stands at the railing, one gloved hand resting atop polished wood. Wind catches strands of dark hair escaping an elaborate arrangement of pins and ornaments.
Beautiful.
Not in the simple way people used the word.
Not pretty.
Not delicate.
Beautiful in the way storms were beautiful.
The way old cathedrals were beautiful.
The way things became beautiful when they had survived enough to become untouchable.
Yosano feels her fingers itch.
She needs to draw her.
Immediately.
Unfortunately, approaching strangers has never been one of her strengths.
Especially rich strangers.
Especially rich strangers who look like they could buy the entire ship.
So she settles for sketching from afar.
Quick lines.
Sharp strokes.
The curve of a jaw.
The angle of a nose.
The silhouette against the setting sun.
A minute later—
"That hardly seems polite."
Yosano nearly launches herself off the deck.
She jerks upright.
The woman is standing directly beside her.
When did she get there?
"Excuse me?"
"Drawing someone without permission."
A perfectly shaped eyebrow arches.
"I was under the impression artists usually ask first."
Yosano looks down.
At the sketchbook.
At the unmistakable portrait occupying half the page.
Then back up.
"...I can explain."
"Can you?"
"No."
A pause.
Then—
To Yosano's complete shock—
The woman laughs.
Soft.
Warm.
Unexpected.
Like hearing music from a room you thought was empty.
"I'm Kouyou Ozaki."
The name means something.
Yosano doesn't know what.
Only that it sounds expensive.
"I know."
Another eyebrow lift.
"You know?"
"The engagement announcements."
Yosano gestures vaguely.
"Newspapers."
Because everyone knew.
The daughter of one of Japan's wealthiest families was crossing the Atlantic to marry an American businessman.
It had been society gossip for months.
Kouyou smiles.
Though the expression doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"I see."
"And I'm Yosano."
"The artist."
"The artist."
Kouyou glances at the sketchbook.
Then extends a hand.
Elegant.
Graceful.
Covered by crimson silk.
"May I see?"
Yosano hesitates.
Then hands it over.
Kouyou studies the drawing.
And something strange happens.
Her expression changes.
Not dramatically.
Just slightly.
The careful mask slipping for a fraction of a second.
Like she'd seen a version of herself she hadn't expected.
"You made me look happy."
Yosano blinks.
"I did?"
"Yes."
Kouyou closes the sketchbook.
Returns it.
And smiles.
This time genuinely.
"Thank you."
Then she walks away.
Leaving Yosano staring after her.
Completely doomed.
—
The Titanic is enormous.
A floating city.
A marvel of engineering.
A miracle of luxury.
And suddenly it feels far too small.
Because Yosano keeps running into Kouyou.
At breakfast.
In the library.
Walking the promenade.
In the reception room.
At dinner.
Everywhere.
It starts accidentally.
Then gradually becomes less accidental.
Until Yosano realises Kouyou has begun seeking her out.
"You're staring again."
"I'm observing."
"There's a difference?"
"Absolutely."
Kouyou laughs.
Yosano thinks she would commit crimes to hear that sound more often.
—
"Tell me about your fiancé."
The question slips out before Yosano can stop it.
Instant regret follows.
The evening breeze dances across the deck.
Kouyou's gaze remains fixed on the ocean.
"Why?"
"No reason."
"You're lying."
"Fine."
Yosano leans against the railing.
"You don't look happy when people mention him."
Silence.
The sea stretches endlessly below.
Dark.
Cold.
Infinite.
Then—
"I've met him twice."
Yosano freezes.
"What?"
"Twice."
Kouyou's voice remains calm.
Too calm.
"Our families arranged everything."
The words hit harder than expected.
"You're marrying a stranger."
"A wealthy stranger."
"That's worse."
A laugh escapes Kouyou.
Though there's no amusement in it.
"Perhaps."
Yosano looks at her.
Really looks.
And suddenly notices things she hadn't before.
The exhaustion hidden beneath elegance.
The loneliness buried beneath grace.
The way her smiles sometimes arrived half a second too late.
The way she always seemed to be acting.
Performing.
Pretending.
Something twists painfully inside Yosano's chest.
—
The portraits begin soon after.
One becomes five.
Five becomes ten.
Ten becomes twenty.
Every day another sketch.
Another painting.
Another excuse to look at Kouyou.
The curve of her hands.
The shape of her eyes.
The way sunlight transformed her hair into liquid gold.
The way moonlight softened every sharp edge.
Yosano fills pages.
Canvas after canvas.
Until nearly every piece she creates bears Kouyou's face.
One afternoon Kouyou discovers them.
All of them.
The cabin door had been left open.
A mistake.
A catastrophic mistake.
Yosano arrives to find Kouyou standing silently in the centre of the room.
Surrounded.
Everywhere she looks—
Kouyou.
Kouyou laughing.
Kouyou reading.
Kouyou watching the ocean.
Kouyou smiling.
Kouyou.
Kouyou.
Kouyou.
Yosano wants the floor to open and swallow her.
"Before you say anything—"
"Is this what I look like?"
The question catches her off guard.
"What?"
Kouyou turns toward a painting.
A gentle one.
One where she's smiling without restraint.
Eyes bright.
Shoulders relaxed.
Free.
"To you."
Yosano's throat tightens.
"Yes."
The answer emerges before she can stop it.
Honest.
Raw.
Dangerous.
"That's exactly what you look like."
For a long moment neither speaks.
Then Kouyou quietly asks:
"Why?"
Because I think you're extraordinary.
Because I can't stop thinking about you.
Because every room feels brighter when you enter it.
Because I have never met anyone who makes me want to become a better artist.
Because I think I'm in love with you.
Instead she says:
"Because you're beautiful."
Kouyou looks away first.
—
On the night of April 14th, 1912—
The stars are magnificent.
Brilliant diamonds scattered across black velvet skies.
Yosano and Kouyou sit together on the deck.
Close enough that their shoulders almost touch.
Not touching.
Almost.
Neither speaks.
Neither needs to.
The ocean stretches endlessly around them.
Silent.
Peaceful.
Perfect.
Then—
A shudder.
Tiny.
Barely noticeable.
The ship trembles.
Stops.
And everything changes.
—
At first nobody understands.
Passengers laugh.
Joke.
Complain about the interruption.
But crew members begin moving faster.
Faces become tense.
Orders become sharper.
And then comes the truth.
Iceberg.
Damage.
Lifeboats.
Evacuation.
The word impossible stops meaning anything.
Chaos spreads.
People scream.
Run.
Cry.
Argue.
The unsinkable ship is sinking.
And suddenly the world is ending.
Yosano finds Kouyou near the Grand Staircase.
Their eyes meet.
Relief floods them both instantly.
"You're alright."
"So are you."
The words tumble out simultaneously.
Almost desperate.
Almost frightened.
Definitely in love.
Though neither says it.
Not yet.
—
Women and children first.
The order echoes endlessly.
Crew members rush passengers toward lifeboats.
Kouyou is ushered forward.
Yosano isn't.
The realisation strikes both at once.
No.
No.
No.
"No."
Kouyou grabs her hand.
Forgetting propriety.
Forgetting appearances.
Forgetting everything.
"Come with me."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I can't."
The terror in Kouyou's eyes breaks something inside Yosano.
For the first time since meeting her—
The mask is completely gone.
And underneath it is simply a woman afraid of losing someone she loves.
"I don't want to leave you."
The confession emerges trembling.
Broken.
Honest.
Yosano's breath catches.
Around them the ship dies.
People scream.
Boats descend.
The Atlantic waits below.
And none of it matters.
Only this.
Only her.
Only Kouyou.
Yosano cups her face.
"I know."
A tear slips down Kouyou's cheek.
Then another.
And another.
"I love you."
The words arrive too late.
Much too late.
Yet somehow perfectly on time.
Yosano closes her eyes.
Because hearing them hurts.
Because hearing them heals.
Because she's loved her too.
For weeks.
For days.
For every moment since the woman in crimson stood beneath a sunset.
"I love you too."
Kouyou sobs.
And kisses her.
Right there.
In front of the world.
In front of death.
In front of eternity.
A desperate kiss.
A grieving kiss.
A kiss for every future stolen from them.
A kiss for every year they would never have.
For that kiss made both feel free.
—
The ship groans.
Metal screams.
The ocean rises.
Time runs out.
Crew members pull Kouyou toward the lifeboat.
She fights them.
Yosano makes her stop.
"Go."
"No."
"Go."
"I'm not leaving you."
"You have to."
Their foreheads press together.
One final moment.
One final breath.
One final memory.
Then—
Kouyou is carried away.
And Yosano watches her descend.
Watches the lifeboat lower.
Watches the woman she loves become smaller.
And smaller.
And smaller.
Until she disappears into darkness.
—
Years later—
Long after the wreck.
Long after the newspapers.
Long after the mourning.
A painting hangs in a quiet gallery.
It becomes famous.
People travel oceans to see it.
Critics call it one of the greatest portraits ever created.
The Woman in Crimson.
A woman stands beside a ship's railing beneath a setting sun.
Beautiful.
Lonely.
Alive.
And hidden in the corner—
So small most never notice—
Are two initials.
A.Y.
For the artist who painted her.
The artist who survived.
The artist who never stopped painting the face she loved.
And every year on April 14th—
Kouyou returns.
Stands before the portrait.
And remembers a woman who looked at her as though she were worth immortalising.
A woman who had loved her before she knew how to love herself.
A woman she never truly lost.
Because every brushstroke still carried her heartbeat.
And every painting still whispered:
I never wanted to stop seeing your face either.