Unsinkable

AN: Well, so far I'm glad of the responses from you guys. 8'D I know my writing is a bit long and dragging sometimes but I just don't want to jump and skip a lot of parts. Perhaps in a really really cracked up parody of this it might work, but I'm getting all srs bzns about the plot and story. And maybe some of you might think this is dragging cuz you've already watched the movie and know what'll happen next? Lol. I'm going on an all out research on this. Please pardon my meticulous love for details and such, I'll try to lessen it once the story picks up. I didn't think a lot of people would like the story cuz of the sheer cheesiness of the idea. XD

Disclaimer: :/ I'm still not the king of the world unfortunately.


Chapter II: From the Bow to the Stern

Just as we left our two 3rd class passengers to go and find their quarters down below, in contrast, the so-called "Millionaire Suite" is in Empire style, and comprises of two bedrooms, a bath, WC, wardrobe room, and a large sitting room. In addition there is a private 50 foot promenade deck outside. A room service waiter pours champagne into a tulip glass of orange juice and hands the Bucks Fizz to Arthur. The young Englishman is looking through his new paintings. There is a Monet of water lilies, a Degas of dancers, and a few abstract works. They are all unknown paintings... lost works. Francis is out on the covered deck, which has potted trees and vines on trellises, talking through the doorway to Arthur in the sitting room.

"Those mud puddles were certainly a waste of money." said Francis while drinking wine, he doesn't appreciate modern art as much with all the cubism and abstract works. He prefers the more classical pieces of art from the baroque and rococo periods. "Those certainly wouldn't be fit to hang in the Louvre."

"You're wrong." Arthur said as he looked through a cubist portrait. "They're fascinating. Like in a dream... like magic. There's truth without logic. What's his name again... ?" he reads the name off the canvas. "something Picasso."

"Something Picasso…?" Francis said smugly as he came into the sitting room. "They'll never amount to a thing, trust me. At least they were cheap." Some men had entered their suit, bringing in more luggage and valuables, and in particular a safe. "Put that in the wardrobe." instructed the Frenchman.

Huffily Arthur enters to the bedroom, not taking more of the Frenchman's arrogance, with the large Degas of the dancers. He sets it on the dresser, near the canopy bed. A maid is already in there, hanging up some of Arthur's clothes.

"It smells so brand new m'lord.." said the maid. "Like they built it all just for us. I mean... just to think that tonight, when I crawl between the sheets, I'll be the first—"

Just then, Francis appears by the doorway of the bedroom over hearing them with a smug expression. "And when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll still be the first." He said while looking at Arthur. The maid blushed at the innuendo and excuses herself. Francis comes up behind Arthur and puts his hands on his shoulders. An act of possession, not intimacy. "The first and only. Forever."

Arthur's expression shows how bleak a prospect this is for him, now.

###

Later that day, at sunset, the Titanic stands silhouetted against a purple post-sunset sky. She is lit up like a floating palace, and her thousand portholes reflect in the calm French harbor waters. The 150 foot tender Nomadic lies-to alongside, looking like a rowboat. The lights of a Cherbourg harbor complete the postcard image. Back in the ship, entering the first class reception room from the tender are a number of prominent passengers. A woman with long hazelnut hair with a pink flower clip next to her ear comes up the gangway, carrying a suitcase in each hand, a spindly porter running to catch up with her to take the bags.

"Well, I wasn't about to wait all day for you, sonny." said the woman. "Take 'em the rest of the way if you think you can manage."

At Cherbourg a woman came aboard named Elizaveta Héderváry, but they all called her Elizabeth. History would call her the Unsinkable Elizaveta. Her husband had struck gold someplace out west, and she was what Roderich would call "new money".

###

By the next afternoon the ship had made its final stop and was now steaming west from the coast of Ireland, with nothing out ahead of them but the ocean...

The ship glows with the warm creamy light of late afternoon. Alfred and Feliciano stand right at the bow gripping the curving railing so familiar from images of the wreck. Al leans over, looking down fifty feet to where the prow cuts the surface like a knife, sending up two glassy sheets of water. The driven water flares higher at the bow as the ship's speed builds and the wind streams through Al's blonde hair.

"Hey look look look!" Alfred points down, his blue eyes wide in astonishment. "Look at that one jump! Whoohoo…!"

In the glassy bow-wave two dolphins appear, under the water, running fast just in front of the steel blade of the prow. They do it for the sheer joy and exultation of motion. The two friends watch the dolphins and grins. They breach, jumping clear of the water and then dive back, crisscrossing in front of the bow, dancing ahead of the juggernaut. The two friends then look forward across the Atlantic, staring into the sunsparkles.

"I can see the Statue of Liberty already." said Feliciano, making Alfred chuckle. "Very small... of course." indicating the size with his thumb and forefinger.

At the exhilaration of the moment, Alfred jumps onto the railing and holds onto one of the cables. He then raises his arms up into the air and shouts to the heavens.

"I'M THE KING OF THE WOOOORLD!"

He cheers and howls with his Italian friend joining in his cheering. "Whoohoo hoooo! Yee haaaw!"

The majestic ship glades over the crisp waters of the Atlantic, spreading waves in its wake as it sails to the west. Its funnels march past like pillars of heaven as the ship soared; it is black and severe in her majesty.

###

"Why're ships always bein' called "she"?" Elizaveta asked her company, the group assembled for lunch the next day. With Roderich, Arthur, Francis and the ship's Captain, Ludwig, in the Palm Court, a beautiful sunny spot enclosed by high arched windows. "Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?" she said and they all laughed. "Just another example of the men settin' the rules their way."

A waiter arrives to take orders for them then Arthur lights a cigarette. Francis was quick enough to take the smoke off his fiancée's lips and stubs it out.

"You know I don't like that, Arthur." said Roderich, warningly glaring at his son.

Francis smiles imploringly at Arthur then turns to the waiter. "We'll both have the lamb. Rare, with a little mint sauce. You like lamb, don't you mon amour?" He asked the young Englishman. Elizaveta watched the dynamic between Arthur, Francis and Roderich.

"So, you gonna cut his meat for him too there, Francis?" She butt in. The awkwardness seemed to have dawned on them so she turns to face the Captain. "Hey, who came up with the name Titanic? Was it you Ludwig?"

"Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury... and safety— " the German Captain of the Titanic said rather modestly.

"Do you know of Dr. Freud?" Arthur suddenly spoke up. "His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you, Mr. Ludwig."

Francis chokes on his breadstick, suppressing laughter.

Roderich didn't find this amusing and grinds his teeth and hisses at his son. "My God, Arthur, what's gotten into— "

"Excuse me." Arthur stood up and stalks away.

"I do apologize." said Roderich a bit mortified by his son's rudeness.

"He's a pistol, Francis." Elizaveta commented. "You sure you can handle him?"

"Well, I may have to start minding what he reads from now on." The Frenchman said tensely but feigning unconcern.

###

Alfred sits on a bench in the sun on the Poop deck. Titanic's wake spreads out behind him to the horizon. He has his knees pulled up, supporting a leather bound sketching pad, his only valuable possession. With conte crayon he draws rapidly, using sure strokes, an emigrant from Manchester, and his 3 year old daughter standing on the lower rung of the rail. She is leaned back against his beer barrel of a stomach, watching the seagulls. His sketch captures them perfectly, with a great sense of the humanity of the moment. Al is good. Really good. Feliciano looks over Al's shoulder. He nods appreciatively.

Joining the duo was a scowling young Prussian emigrant, Gilbert Weillschmidt. He watches as a crewmember comes by, walking three small dogs around the deck.

"That's typical." The Prussian scoffed. "First class dogs come down here to take a shit."

"That's so we know where we rank in the scheme of things." said Al, looking up from his sketch.

"Pfft…Like we could forget." Gilbert crosses his arms and leans against the railing.

Alfred's eyes travel and glances across the well deck. At the aft railing of B deck promenade stands the handsome young haughty Englishman. For some reason Alfred was unable to take his eyes off of him. They are across from each other, about 60 feet apart, with the well deck like a valley between them. The rich young man on his promontory, and Alfred on his much lower one. Arthur stares down at the water somberly.

Al watches him take off his gloves and looks at the frilly absurd thing, then tosses it over the rail. It sails far down to the water and is carried away, astern. A spot of white in the vast ocean. Alfred is riveted by him. The rich young man looks like a figure in a romantic novel, sad and isolated.

Feliciano taps Gilbert and they both look at Alfred gazing at Arthur. The Italian and the Prussian grin at each other.

Arthur turns suddenly and looks right at Alfred's blue eyes. Al is caught staring, but he doesn't look away. Arthur does, but then looks back. Their eyes meet across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds. Alfred sees another man, with long flowing shoulder length hair, come up behind him and take his arm. Arthur jerks his arm away. They argue in pantomime. He storms away, and the lewd looking man goes after him, disappearing along the A-deck promenade. Alfred stares after them.

"Forget it, boy." Gilbert said in mid snigger "You might as well like having angels fly out of your arse than get next to the likes of him."

Al turns back to his sketch and shrugs. "Who says I like men?"

Gilbert looks over to Feliciano then they both roll their eyes.

###

He saw his whole life as if he'd already lived it... an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches... always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. He feels like he was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull him back, no one who cared… or even noticed…

Arthur sits staring into space, his mind a whirl of turmoil and despair and yet his face never betrayed him. The young Englishman was flanked by people in heated conversation. Francis and Roderich are laughing together, while on the other side more aristocrats joined in on their chatter. He doesn't really hear what they are saying. Arthur is staring at his plate, barely listening to the inconsequential babble around him.

Underneath the table he was holding a tiny fork from his crab salad. He pokes the crab-fork into the skin of his arm, harder and harder until it draws blood.

That night Arthur stands in the middle of his room, staring at his reflection in the large vanity mirror. He just stands there, then-

With a primal, anguished cry he claws at his throat, ripping off his tie and he removes his cufflinks then throws them across the room. In a frenzy he tears at himself, his clothes, his hair... then attacks the room. He flings everything off the dresser and it flies clattering against the wall. He hurls a vase against the vanity, cracking it.

###

Arthur runs along the B deck promenade. He is disheveled and is crying while grinding his teeth in fury, his cheeks streaked with tears and his bushy eyebrows furrowed in anger with emotions he doesn't understand... hatred, self-hatred, desperation. A strolling couple watch him pass, shocked at the emotional display in public.

Alfred is kicked back on one of the benches gazing at the stars blazing gloriously overhead. Thinking artist thoughts and smoking a cigarette. Hearing something, he turns as Arthur runs up the stairs from the well deck. They are the only two on the stern deck. Arthur doesn't see him in the shadows, and runs right past him.

Arthur runs across the deserted fantail. His breath hitches in an occasional sob, which he suppresses. He slams against the base of the stern flagpole and clings there, panting. He stares his bright green eyes out at the black water. He then starts to climb over the railing, climbing clumsily. Moving methodically he turns his body and gets his shoes on the white-painted gunwale, his back to the railing, facing out toward blackness. 60 feet below him, the massive propellers are churning the Atlantic into white foam, and a ghostly wake trails off toward the horizon.

He leans out, his arms straightening... looking down hypnotized, into the vortex below him. His white long sleeved undershirt and scruffy blonde hair were lifted by the wind of the ship's movement. The only sound, above the rush of water below, is the flutter and snap of the big Union Jack right above him.

"Don't do it." a voice suddenly spoke behind him. Arthur whips his head around at the sound of Alfred's voice. It takes a second for his green eyes to focus.

"Stay back!" Arthur threatened. "Don't come any closer!"

Alfred sees the tear tracks on the other's cheeks in the faint glow from the stern running lights. He reaches out his arm and offers his hand. "Take my hand. I'll pull you back in."

"No! Stay where you are. I mean it. I'll let go." The English man threatened again.

"No you won't." Alfred said in dead seriousness.

"What do you mean no I won't?" Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. "Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me."

"You would have done it already. Now come on, take my hand."

Arthur is confused now. He can't see the other young man very well through the tears, so he wipes them with one hand, almost losing his balance. "You're distracting me. Go away."

"I can't. I'm involved now. If you let go I have to jump in after you." Alfred said, indicating the 'jump' with a jerk of his head over the railing.

"Don't be absurd… You'll be killed."

"Don't worry." Alfred said, taking his jacket off. "I'm a good swimmer." He then starts unlacing his left shoe.

"The fall alone would kill you." Arthur said in a way to convince the other to leave him alone.

"It would hurt." The American nodded, "I'm not saying it wouldn't. To be honest I'm a lot more concerned about the water being so cold."

Arthur looks down. The reality factor of what he is doing is sinking in. "How cold?

"Freezing." Al said plainly, "Maybe a couple degrees over." He now starts to unlace his right shoe. "Ever been to Wisconsin?"

"No." Arthur said, a bit perplexed.

"Well they have some of the coldest winters around, and I grew up there, near Chippewa Falls. Once when I was a kid me and my father were ice-fishing out on Lake Wissota... ice-fishing's where you chop a hole in the—"

"I know what ice fishing is! I'm not a bloody idiot." Arthur said irritatedly furrowing his eyebrows again.

"Sorry." Al said, "Just... you look like kind of an indoor guy. Anyway, I went through some thin ice and I'm tellin' ya, water that cold... like that right down there...?" his blue eyes glances over the railing again. "It hits you like a thousand knives all over your body. You can't breath, you can't think... least not about anything but the pain." He finished quite casually and takes off his other shoe, "Which is why I'm not looking forward to jumping in after you. But like I said, I don't see a choice. I guess I'm kinda hoping you'll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here."

"You're crazy." The Englishman shook his head in disbelief.

"That's what everybody says. But with all due respect, sir, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship." said Al, sliding one step closer, like moving up on a spooked horse. "Come on. You don't want to do this. Give me your hand."

Arthur stares at this madman for a long time. He looks at his blue eyes and they somehow suddenly seem to fill his universe.

"Alright." He finally said. He unfastens one hand from the rail and reaches it around toward him. Al reaches out to take it, firmly.

"I'm Alfred Jones." said the American, locking his blue eyes with the other's green ones.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones." replied Arthur with his voice quavering. "I'm Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur starts to turn. Now that he has decided to live, the height is terrifying. He is overcome by vertigo as he shifts his footing, turning to face the ship. As he starts to climb again, his pant leg gets in the way, and one foot slips off the edge of the deck.

Arthur plunges, letting out a piercing scream. Alfred, gripping his hand, is jerked toward the rail. Arthur barely grabs a lower rail with his free hand.

A Quartermaster up on the docking bridge hears the scream and heads for the ladder.

"HELP! HELP!" screamed Arthur.

"I've got you. I won't let go." assured Alfred.

Al holds the other's hand with all his strength, bracing himself on the railing with his other hand. Arthur tries to get some kind of foothold on the smooth hull. Alfred tries to lift the other man bodily over the railing. Arthur can't get any footing in his ripped pants and evening shoes, and he slips back. Arthur screams again.

Alfred, awkwardly clutching Arthur by whatever he can get a grip on as he flails, gets the other young man over the railing. They fall together onto the deck in a tangled heap, spinning in such a way that Alfred winds up slightly on top of Arthur.

The quartermaster slides down the ladder from the docking bridge like it's a fire drill and sprints across the fantail.

"Here, what's all this?" said the sailor in a thick British accent. He runs up and pulls Alfred off of Arthur, revealing him disheveled and sobbing on the deck. His pants and shirt were torn, and the hem is pushing up above his knees. He looks at Alfred, the shaggy steerage man with his jacket off, and the first class young man clearly in distress, and starts drawing conclusions. Two seamen chug across the deck to join them.

"Stand back! 'An don't move an inch!" the seaman points a gun at Alfred's chest at point blank then turns to the two other seamen. "Fetch the Master at Arms."


AN: Urghh… you guys are right.. this is taking too long and dragging. So I made this chapter a little longer to get everything in. I sure do hope you don't mind Hungary being Molly Brown and Ludwig as the Captain of the Titanic. XDD roflmao. I had to put Prussia in somewhere in there and opted to make him Tommy Ryan, Jack's Irish friend.

So so so, I heard joo gaiz want to change the ending? Hnn.. Would you like the ending to be different and make it happy? Or would you want me to stick with the depressing plot?

;D Tell me what you guys think!