Much to Francis' abilities, him, Roderiche and Arthur were naturally residing in the "Millionaire Suite." It was a lavish, Empire styled suite with two bedrooms, a bath, a wardrobe room, and a large sitting room for casual visiting. In addition, the three had access to a 50 foot private deck outside their own quarters, as one of Titanic's many extra accessories granted to those willing to pay its extra miles with their immense wealth. Francis had what he needed to impress, and impressing those around him on this voyage to America was just what he intended to do. He needed to keep Arthur within his grasp and under control….

Francis watched the small Englishman as he sipped at a tulip glass of Bucks Fizz champagne. He seemed to make a habit of finding comfort in alcoholic beverages, but Francis was completely stumped as to why Arthur would need any 'comfort.' He approached the other, looking over the new paintings he'd purchased for Arthur as they were pulled from their casings by Natalia and Katyusha, and respectively placed in various places around their suite. Arthur seemed hypnotized by the images…. Abstract collections, like a Monet of water lilies, a Degas of dancers, and a few more colorfully confusing pieces most likely painted just in time for the revolution of modern art- forever remaining nameless for confidentiality in certain areas of Europe due the uprising against modern art and artists in the Eastern countries. However, that in itself seemed to fascinate Arthur…, a nameless work of art and painted feelings that he could somehow keep and enjoy provided him a sense of wonder that he cherished.

Francis, on the other hand, although a lover of art, couldn't understand Arthur's appeal to some of the more abstract. "I'm not entirely positive why these interest you so much."

"They're simply fascinating…," Arthur began, staring at a piece already placed over the sitting table in the corner. "It's like being in a dream, really. There's a truth there, without logic…. It's like the artist found a place to be free."

Francis frowned at these words, reading into Arthur's subtext. He sighed, and ran a hand through his long hair, feeling it between his fingers as the image of stress. He didn't intend to bother Arthur if he didn't want to be bothered- not now. He thought he'd give the man some space, and maybe that would help him be a bit more social, but something in the back of his mind was telling him this was turning into a lost cause. It was clear Arthur didn't want to go through with the plans anymore…, it was becoming more of an obligation than an act of free will.

He put it out his mind, and proceeded to assist Ivan and a few other workers with his safe that was being pushed into the room on a hand truck. "Put that in the wardrobe," he instructed, insisting the safe go with him on any escapade, in assurance of his financial security. There was never a threat of his treasures or money being discovered if the safe was with him…. Arthur saw it as nothing more than a security blanket Francis needed for his secrets more than his wealth.

Arthur watched it be placed from the corner of his eye and his expression dropped in disdain. "Do you insist on having that with you everywhere?

"I insist!" Francis replied from the wardrobe.

Arthur sighed, putting his glass down to assist Katyusha with one of the heavier paintings as she toddled with it, practically balancing it on her breasts. He grabbed the edges and helped her set it on his dresser in the bedroom, where he could admire in at rest. "Ahh~, thank you, Mr. Kirkland!" Katyusha smiled with a bounce in her step. "But you really didn't have to help, I am a strong woman, I could have done it, yes I could."

"Nonsense," Arthur smiled. "You're still a woman, a man should always assist you if you need it. Just don't tell Francis."

"Oooh, well my lips are sealed, Mr. Kirkland!"

"That's my girl." Arthur gave her a bit of a pet on the head, as she was an easy woman to approach, and didn't take any personal offense to be touched casually by a man in Ukrainian custom. Besides, to Arthur, she had more appeal as a cat or an excited bunny than a young lady…. Her entire charisma was so naïve and energetic and carefree, although she had a tendency to become upset and cry easily, almost like an innocent child.

He almost felt jealous.

Titanic seemed to roll endlessly over the ocean waves, smoothly under the feet of all those on board like it was simply gliding over the intense, rumbling ocean beneath. Arthur seemed the most aware of it- the absolute glory of the notion of a metal beast that could be ridden over an entire ocean, to different continents. Perhaps he wasn't so unimpressed with Titanic as he was just focused on something else, something more meaningful. He could make a point to recognize the miracle it was to travel in his time of life, and that was by far more impressive than any ship's size and grandeur of luxury…. He didn't care about luxury.

In looking around at the faces of the lunch table the next day, he couldn't help but feel like some sort of alien amongst humans. These people, they did care about luxury after all. His green eyes thoughtfully scanned the dull expressions of his 'father,' Roderiche…, and the ever contentment of Francis seated at his side. Everyone laughed in good cheer and giddiness, but he couldn't bring himself to smile or care about anything that spilled from their lips, or anything that went in them. Even the food seemed so extravagantly spoiled, and he merely stirred his lunch around on his plate to avoid eating it…..

"She is the largest moving object made by man in all of history!" Exclaimed a new face at the far end of the table. His voice was loud and piercing, borderline arrogant in tone. It didn't seem to matter, though, he was handsome and wealthy enough to get away with murder if he so chose. An albino man…, with rumored pink eyes and platinum hair, but you wouldn't know from looking at him, as he seemed to always have a brown wig and eye lens to keep the shame of his born curse hidden. Yet now and then, if you looked close enough, you could see a strand of white here and there, poking from under the brown of his guise…. Arthur couldn't help but think maybe he felt like he had to talk so loudly because he was trying to distract the inevitable truth of his appearance. His name was Gilbert Beilschmidt, a well known businessman who served as chairman and managing director White Star Line of steamships. Roderiche had once told Arthur that Gilbert wasn't ever afraid to put his money where his mouth was…. There may have been a bit of tension between the two men. Gilbert continued, "and our master shipbuilder, Mr. Honda here, designed her from the keel plates and up!"

Gilbert gestured to a small Japanese man seated to his right, Kiku Honda, of Harland and Wolf Shipbuilders. It was said he did his work in Ireland, his talent calling for more space and supplies than what the oriental countries could seem to offer. "Well," Kiku began, "I may have pieced her together, but the idea was Mr. Beilschmidt's. He proposed the plans to me, of a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is," Kiku smiled, looking up into the sunlight that dripped down onto the table from the high arched windows, "willed into reality."

"Why are ships always being called 'she?' Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?" Everyone began laughing at the comment, delivered with adorable tact from a young, Hungarian woman named Elizabeta Hedervary. She was a somewhat well received member of the 'rich snob' club, if Arthur remembered correctly. Her family had simply struck gold somewhere out west, and she was what Roderiche liked to called 'new money.' In truth, she struck a fancy in Arthur, as she was a tough cracking, tom-boy from Hungary with no fear and a will made of steel. She dressed well in the finery of genteel peers, but she knew she'd never be one of them, nor did she have any real strong desire to be. Yet she knew Roderiche through some sort of business claim, nothing Arthur could remember in perfect detail…, but Arthur had taken a strong liking to her ever sense, and although Roderiche acted distant towards her in company, it was clear under the wing of family he held some dear soft spot for Elizabeta. Arthur didn't mind this…, it was proof that money couldn't stain the entire heart of man.

Arthur didn't feel well. He pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it, closing his eyes and inhaling deep. Roderiche glowered at his son.
"Arthur, you know I don't like that."

Arthur glared back, remaining silent. He had few pleasures, smoking was something he enjoyed…. Much to his dismay, Francis proceeded to take the cigarette away and snub it out on one of the dinner plates, sensing the tension between son and parent. "He knows," Francis mumbled.

Arthur took a deep breathe, looking back down at his uneaten lunch without another word. The dark bags under his eyes told their own tale of stress, tiredness and frustration…, and it didn't seem to help the moods of Roderiche, and especially not Francis who seemed to be suppressing concern. Elizabeta couldn't help but notice this, as she watched the three men from across the table. "Uh.. Ah! Gilbert," she began, "were you the one who came up with the name 'Titanic?'

Gilbert laughed loud, "of course! I wanted to convey her sheer size, and size means stability, luxury, and stability-"

"Do you know of Dr. Frued?" Arthur suddenly asked Gilbert. It dropped the entire lunch table in a dead silence, as they were the first words Arthur spoke in the entire meal. They all watched him, and Roderich's brow raised in a slight horror. There was an impish gleam in Arthur's green eyes- a sudden spark of health and thought. It was never a good thing. Arthur continued, "his ideas about the male's preoccupation with size might be of a particular interest to you, Mr. Beilschmidt."

Elizabeta almost chocked on a breadstick, trying to suppress her laughter, and Francis seemed to be hiding an amused glint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. Roderiche quickly flicked Arthur's ear in an embarrassed and flustered sort of fury from his son. "My God, Arthur, what has gotten into-…"

"Excuse me," Arthur interrupted, brushing Roderiche's hands away and dismissing himself to the decks outside.

The table remained quiet for a few moments after Arthur's grand retreat, and Roderiche quickly fumbled an 'I'm sorry,' to Gilbert, who dismissed it with a good natured grin and wave of his hand. "He's got quite the bite to him, that one."

"He's always been a pistol," Elizabeta smiled, taking a sip of her beverage and looking to Francis. "I wonder if he'll calm down a bit once he gets to America."

"Speaking of which," Kiku added, staring rather seriously at Roderiche, "it may be none of my business, but.., I want to know. How is Arthur's health faring?"

Roderiche remained quiet, his eyes dropping and staring blankly at random things on the table. Francis seemed to be just as bothered by the question, but he didn't want Roderiche's silence to give any worse case scenario…, there was still hope. "When we get to America, the doctors there will treat him. He'll be good as new." Francis left it at that, taking another sip of his red wine as the group finished their lunch.

The decks were clean and fruitful, with a bright sun and blue sky and nothing but salty and fresh ocean air all around. It was there Alfred was resting in the sun on a small bench, Titanic's wake spread out behind him in the horizon. He had his knees pulled up, supporting a leather bound sketching pad- his only valuable possession. With a conte crayon, he was drawing rapidly with sure strokes and immigrant from Switzerland known as Vash Zwingli, and Vash's little sister Lili as they stood on the lower ring of the railing, watching the seagulls.
Alfred's strokes didn't seem to miss a beat, as he sketched them with a sense of earnest perfectionism, and a great sense of the humanity of the moment. He was good at what he did…. Even Lovino watched Alfred draw over his shoulder with great appreciation for what the American could seem to capture with nothing but a conte crayon and a sketch pad.

Nearby, a crewmember came out to walk his dogs… a black poodle and a grunting English bull dog that seemed to snarl at anyone that was within six feet of his presence, including a Spanish immigrant man who had to move from his relaxed seat against a railing to not bother the testy canine. He wandered over to where Lovino and Alfred were and rubbed his eyes, watching the dogs with a bit of animosity. "That seems too typical. A first class dog coming down to our decks to take a shit…."

Alfred looked up from his sketchpad. "That's just so we know where we rank in the grand scheme of things."

"How can we forget?" Lovino grumbled, glaring at the dogs.

The immigrant chuckled, reaching a hand over to shake Lovino's. "Hola, I'm Antonio."

Lovino was skeptical for a moment, but eventually shook Antonio's hand. "Lovino."

It was only in that brief moment of distraction, however, did Alfred notice the man at the aft railing of the B deck promenade. Arthur was all alone, leaning over the railing with a disheveled sort of posture so unlike a man of that status to carry. He was dressed well enough, a white dress shirt and velvet red vest… clean slacks and ebony black, knotted dress shoes. Yet he didn't hold himself with the air of a noble or pride, he stood like any common Joe… it was somewhat of a spectacle to someone like Alfred, who took interest in anything so contrasting, as an artist. Alfred couldn't take his eyes off of Arthur…. 60 feet apart, with a deck that stretched like a valley between them, yet Alfred couldn't help but see and absorb every detail about Arthur; He was like some figure in a romantic novel, sad and isolated.

Alfred watched as Arthur unpinned his bowler hat from his head and fidget with it loosely in his hands. His sandy blond hair was whipped around by the wind, with a healthy lightness to it that shimmered like golden thread in the afternoon sunlight. Arthur stared at the hat not a moment more, before tossing it over the railing where it sailed far down to the water and was carried away, astern. He seemed to gain a bodily sense of relief from the action…. It bewildered Alfred. Such small actions, such subtle gestures, that somehow were telling some sort of story. Every budge Arthur made was a word, every motion was a call for something, for delight, for help… It was captivating for the young artist to watch.

Lovino noticed Alfred's preoccupation with Arthur . He snickered, gesturing for Antonio to look. They smiled at each other, chuckling under their breath. It was then Arthur turned suddenly, green eyes locking onto Alfred. The blue eyed blond was caught staring, yet he didn't look away, not even for a moment. Arthur watched him, analyzing, before feeling the discomfort and awkwardness of the situation and turned away, rubbing his sleeved arms in cold. Yet for some reason, within seconds, he looked back again… the whole scene playing over. Their eyes met and were frozen on each other, as if it was more than staring between the space of the decks, but of the gulf between worlds. It barely felt unnatural…, it was like an esteemed and unhealthy curiosity that left them both perplexed and unable to look away….
Soon, Francis was there, quickly putting a coat over Arthur's shoulders, who in turn jerked away from under the warm gesture and they began arguing in what was nothing but pantomime to Alfred from his distance away. He watched as Arthur stormed back inside, Francis following slowly, overwhelmed… concerned.

Antonio snickered, stretching his arms over his head and making himself comfortable next to the bench. "That was muy intenso, mi amigo."

Alfred remained quiet, and quickly went back to drawing. He felt abashed. He didn't know why.

Arthur was re-established in his seat next to Francis, flanked by people in heated conversation. Roderiche and Elizabeta were laughing about something together, as Gilbert seemed to be encouraging Kiku to become more involved in the animated, inconsequential babble all around them. Francis soon too began laughing with them, making political jokes and remarks that always seemed to quickly draw in on Gilbert's good side. Arthur was seeing his whole life as he had already lived it…. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches…. Always the same narrow people, always the same mindless chatter. He felt like he was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull him back, no one who cared… or even noticed. Under the table, Arthur fiddled with a tiny fork from his crab salad. He poked it into the skin on his arm, harder and harder, until it drew blood….

Night soon fell. He was expected to do the entire ordeal over, another meal, another dinner. He was expected…, Roderiche and Francis had already left to do small talk and business beforehand but didn't push Arthur to come, not after his lunch display, and somehow, he just didn't think he could do it all over again. Every day, for the rest of his life.

He was mid step in the corridor to the dining area before he turned on his heel and began back to his room. A steward in passing greeted him. Arthur smiled, totally composed. He made it to his room, its empty silence greeting him no less passionately than the scolding he was sure to obtain from Roderiche later on for missing dinner. He stood in the middle of the room, staring at his reflection in the large dresser mirror. He just stood there… and then with a primal, anguished cry he clawed at his throat, popping the buttons on his dress shirt down to his stomach with one long tear, as the buttons bounced in random directions on the floor. In a heated frenzy, he continued to tear at himself, his clothes, his hair, as if no amount of contact to himself could quench his desperation. He proceeded to attack the room, flinging everything off the dresser in rage and cried as it flew clattering against the wall. His sobs were heavy and his breathing was cracked from the soreness in his lungs and stomach. He stared absently at the wall as he dropped to his knees, crying into the palms of his hands. His shoulders rose and fell in self loathe, in self suffering. "Don't blame me…," he sobbed, muffled in his hands. "…Don't blame me."

Before he knew it, he was sprinting along the B deck promenade. He was totally disheveled. He was still crying, his cheeks stained with tears, not caring about anything else through his anger, through his ferocity. His whole body shook with emotions as he ran, emotions he didn't understand- hatred, self-hatred, desperation….

Alfred was kicked back on one of the deck's benches, gazing at the stars blazing gloriously overhead, thinking artist thoughts. Hearing something, he turned as Arthur ran up the stairs of the well deck. The area was empty, other than their two souls. Arthur didn't see Alfred relaxing in the shadows, and sprinted past him without notice. Alfred quickly got to his feet, tracking Arthur as he ran to the deserted fantail, the Englishman's breath hitching in an occasional, suppressed sob. Arthur slammed himself against the base of the stern flagpole and clung there, panting under tearing eyes as the cool night air turned his heated breath into little puffs of fog in his face. He stared out over the blackness of the open water….

Suddenly, he began to climb over the railing, his body shaking in cold and hysterics. His fingers felt like ice against the metal rails, as he clumsily turned himself down onto the other side of the railing, back to, holding the metal bar firm within his grip as he positioned himself on the edge facing out towards the blackness…. He stared down 60 feet below him, as the massive propellers were churning the Atlantic into white foam, and a ghostly trail of it waked off into the distance. He leaned out, his arms straightening, looking down hypnotized into the vortex below him. There was no sound at all. Just the absolute silence of his breathing, and the rush of the cold ocean below…. No sound of life, and nobody to convince him otherwise.

"Don't do it."

Arthur whipped his head around at the sound of the voice. It took a second for his wet and blurry eyes to focus. "Stay back!" His hissed, panicked. "Don't come any closer! I mean it!"

Alfred stood there for a moment, noticing the tear streaks running down his face in the faint glow of the stern's running lights, and the redness of his eyes. He gently moved forward, slowly reaching a hand out, "shh… just take my hand. I'll pull you back over."

"No! Stay where you are, I'm serious," he warned, "I'll let go."

Alfed straightened up and returned his hands to his pockets. "No you won't."

Arthur was confused by the statement. He was trying to see Alfred better, but his eyes were still blurry and unfocused, and he moved to wipe them with the back of his hand, almost losing his balance. "What? Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do, you don't know me!"

Alfred was tense, yet he flawlessly feigned unconcern. "You would have done it already if you were going to."

Arthur shook his head, "you're distracting me, go away!"

"I can't," Alfred shrugged, tapping his toe against the deck a couple of times, watching Arthur closely. "I'm involved now. If you let go," he sighed, taking his jacket off and kneeling down to untie his shoe, "then I'm just gonna have to just jump in there after you."

Arthur was totally bewildered. His whole body was starting to shiver. "Don't be absurd! You'll be killed!"

Alfred laughed quietly, "I'm a good swimmer."

"The fall alone would kill you."

"It will hurt a lot, I'm not going to lie." He moved to start untying his left shoe. "To be honest, I'm a lot more concerned about the water being so cold."

Arthur paused, looking down at the water, and then back at Alfred. He was starting to feel the temperature in his skin as his hysterics lessened. "…h-how cold?"

"Freezing. Maybe only a couple degrees over." Arthur stared down at the black waves. He seemed to be re-thinking, as his bottom lip began to quiver in attempt to keep his teeth from chattering. Alfred eyed him carefully for a moment, taking both his shoes off and placing them carefully to the side with his coat. "Uhh… ever been to Wisconsin?"

Arthur turned to look at Alfred again, completely perplexed. His fingers were growing numb on the railing. "What?"

"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… uh, ice-fishing is when you chop a little hole in the-"

"I know what ice fishing is!" Arthur spat, glaring Alfred down.

Alfred took a deep breath, trying to take re-control of the situation. "Sorry, you just seemed like kind of an indoorsy sort of guy. Well anyway, I went through some thin ice and I'm telling you… water that cold… it hits you like a thousand knives all over your body. You can't breathe, you can't think…least not about anything but the pain." Arthur's brow furrowed and he looked back down at the water as Alfred straightened up. "Which is why I'm not looking forward to jumping in there after you. I'm kind of hoping you'll come back over the rail and lemme off the hook here."

Arthur's teeth chattered together and he turned his head again, staring at him. "…y-you're… crazy…."

"Well maybe," Alfred smiled, whispering quietly, "but with all due respect, sir, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship." Arthur stared, his eyes shifting between the railing, Alfred, and the water. His heart was pounding in his chest, he was realizing what he was doing. Alfred took another smooth step towards Arthur, as if approaching a spooked horse. "Come on, you don't want to do this. Give me your hand."

Arthur stared at the madman for a while, unsure which would be more insane: jumping or trusting this strange person with saving his life. At this point, everything was an internal battle of right and wrong, what felt good and what was appropriate…. Yet, in the situation he was in, staring at the blue of Alfred's eyes, they seemed to be the only piece of logic in his entire universe, and it filled him completely. His chest moved in and out, composing himself with a swallow knowing full well he no longer wanted to be on the side of he railing he was on anymore. "Alright." He slowly unfastened one hand from the railing and reached it toward Alfred.

Alfred took the cold hand firm in his grip. "I'm Alfred Jones."

"Arthur Kirkland…," Arthur mumbled in reply. Now that he decided he wanted to live, the height was terrifying. He was suddenly overcome by vertigo as he shifted his footing, turning the face the ship. As he started to climb, his shoelace became caught on the rail, and one foot slipped off the edge of the deck.

He plunged down, letting out a piercing shout. Alfred, gripping his hand, was jerked to the rail, as Arthur barely grabbed onto the lower rail with his free hand. "Help! Help!" He shouted, terror filling his face and cold voice.

"I've got you, Arthur, I won't let go!" Alfred replied, holding him up with all his strength and bracing himself on the railing with his other hand. Arthur tried to get a foothold on the smooth hull as Alfred tried to lift him bodily over the railing. Arthur couldn't seem to get his footing with the smooth underside of his shoes, and he plunged again with a terrified yell.

Alfred awkwardly began clutching for whatever part of Arthur he can get a grip of as the Englishman in turn tried to scramble his way back up again with his own strength, the two beginning to work together. Hanging onto nothing but Alfred's hand as he was dangled over the black, deadly nothingness below- if life didn't hold meaning for Arthur before, it was doing everything in its power to at least allow Alfred a chance to save him. Before a breath could be taken, Arthur was pulled over and they fell together on the deck in a loud, tangled heap of pants, exhausted.

Arthur's cries didn't go unheard, as the quartermaster sprinted across the docking bridge like it was a fire drill. He was on them in seconds, pulling Alfred off of Arthur and looking over the image. A distressed young man, the buttons torn all down his shirt to his chest, and what seemed to be grip marks on his wrists and neck. He was disheveled, with no coat or over shirt, yet the gold cufflinks of a noble. Then there was Alfred, a shaggy lower class man with shaking hands, standing over a nice jacket that was tossed aside. The quartermaster quickly began drawing his own conclusions, assuming this as an assault of a lower class man onto an upper class man. Robbery, brutality, any of the options were possible.

Suddenly, Arthur was holding his stomach, coughing hysterically from his lungs as blood spat from his mouth onto the deck. The quartermaster quickly kneeled next to him, pulling up Arthur's shirt to see the mark of the railing when it was pressed against his stomach. He stared over the railing- it would be easy to dump and assault weapon into the ocean.

Alfred stared at Arthur's coughing in horror, taking a step towards him to help in any way, but the quartermaster shot up. "You stay back! You stand still right where you are!" He shouted.

Alfred backed up, his hands in the air, continuing to watch Arthur as he coughed. "You need to get him to a doctor right now, he's clearly sick!"

Two other men were there quickly, pushing Alfred down to the ground, as Arthur's watched the scene in blurry vision, fading out. "Don't…" his voice barely a whisper, exhausted, almost unable to speak through his hoarseness. "…it wasn't him… I'm sick." He coughed again, the world fading. "…I'm sick."

"Fetch the master of arms!"

Note: Woweee zowee. Look at the mess you've caused, Arthur. Well, there it is folks, chapter five will be up sooner than you think. I'm sorry this one took as long as it did, it was a long chapter. Again, your reviews and messages have been extremely inspirational and they make me incredibly happy and make me work faster. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. As it progresses, more of the missing pieces you're probably wondering about will indeed come into place, just sit tight and enjoy the ride. It's finally starting to wind down into the core. Stay tuned for chapter five and have a fantastic day!