ive been sitting on a titanic au for japril for over a year now. ive been fixated on this tragedy since i was 4 or 5 years old, so you can rest assured that all of the information about the ship and the time period itself is as close to accurate as i could get it. unless i took creative liberties, which i did do at some points, and will continue to do!

for example, its very unlikely that third class passengers would be allowed on A-deck/the promenade as to lower the risk of spreading disease. of course sneaking is always possible... but if a first class passenger came into contact with someone from third class or steerage, they would probably have to quarantine.

but this is fic, so i do make SOME of the rules :)

anyway, all that said, please enjoy 3

...

APRIL

APRIL 10TH, 1912

In all my life, I have never seen as many people as there are standing on the dock to board the Titanic. I make sure to hold my sisters' hands extra tight - Cecelia on the left, who is older than I am, and Lottie on the right, who is much younger. Only five years old. She had her birthday last week.

We're waiting in line, a very long line, for the health inspection that all third class passengers are required to go through. It's moving slowly, but I tell myself that it doesn't matter when we get on the ship - no matter what, we'll make it on. The three tickets I have tucked in my dress pocket will make sure of that.

"April Grace," Lottie's little voice sounds, as she tugs on my skirt with her free hand, "I'm scared."

I glance at my sister's small, round face, and find her cornflower blue eyes glistening with tears. I kneel down, freeing up Cecelia's hand for the time being, and hold Lottie's waist. "What's wrong, mopsy?" I ask.

She fiddles with the string of her bonnet, tied loosely under her chin. "I don't want to go," she says.

I lift my eyebrows in an expression of mock surprise. "You want to stay here and work for old Mrs. Ward for the rest of your days?" I say, whispering for effect.

"She's not all bad," Lottie says, glancing at the ship and then back at me. "Will we get warm milk at bedtime in America?"

Cecelia, Lottie, and I left New York City when Lottie was barely two years old. She remembers almost nothing of the city, and nothing of our mother. It was beneficial while we spent time away - she didn't have much to miss - but now that we're going back, she feels like she's leaving home instead of returning to it. Southampton is all she's ever consciously known, and she has the accent to prove it, one that Cecelia and I don't have.

"Of course," I say, stroking her hands. "Anything you want. And I know Mother will be so pleased to see you. She'll be amazed at how you've grown!"

"I was a baby before," Lottie says. "Will she remember me?"

"How could anyone forget you?" I ask, then squeeze her fingers. "You're the most memorable girl in this world."

She smiles then, and I feel I've accomplished something good.

"But the boat is too big," she says, pointing at it. I lower her arm, silently reminding her that pointing isn't polite. We don't want to show our class, or lack thereof, in front of all these people.

"The boat?" Cecelia says from where she stands tall. "You silly thing, it's a ship!"

"Boats float," Lottie says. "And the Titanic floats."

"Ships also float, mopsy," Cecelia says, more gently this time.

"But how?" Lottie says. "It's humongous. How doesn't it sink?"

"God Himself couldn't sink this ship," I say. "That's what everyone says. I promise, we'll be safe. It'll be exciting, don't you think?"

"I don't know," Lottie says.

"You'll see," I say, getting to my feet again and retaking her hand.

We continue to inch forward with the rest of third class, and as we get closer to the front of the line, Lottie cranes her neck - curious about the pre-boarding process.

"It's a health inspection," I tell her, answering the question before she can ask it. "They'll check us for lice and disease."

"Why?" Lottie asks, pressing herself close to my legs. "We're clean."

The sound of a scoff catches my attention, made by an officer of the ship who must have overheard my sister. I ignore his rudeness and say, "Of course we are, sweetheart. It's something they do for everyone, just to be safe."

As a staff member combs through our thick, red hair with a fine-toothed comb, I can't help but notice the first-class passengers boarding freely, without a checkpoint in place to make them stop.

…

When we board, I keep Lottie's hand and Cecelia keeps mine. With my violin case strapped to my back and my skirt flowing around my ankles, we make our way to the deck to wave goodbye to everyone back on land.

I pump my arm madly, smiling so widely that my cheeks hurt. Over the bellow of the foghorn, Lottie asks, "Do you know someone?"

"Not a soul," I say, continuing to wave. "But it feels right."

"Come on, Lottie," Cecelia says, encouraging her. "Say goodbye!"

Lottie wraps her hands around the top bar of the railing, climbs onto the first rung, and I wrap an arm around her middle for support. She waves, giggling as she goes, and sings, "Goodbye! I'll never forget you!"

…

After the ship has successfully left the dock, Cecelia leads the way down to our cabin on F-Deck. Lottie keeps close, one hand tucked tightly into mine, and is sucking her thumb by the time we make it to our room.

We share a room, F-70, with two other people. We have two bunks and so do they, and they're already here when Cecelia politely knocks on the door and pushes it open.

"Hi," she says, "we're the Kepners."

The two women on the bunks look up, one on top and one on the bottom, and cast us beaming smiles. "Good to meet you," the blonde on the lower bunk says with a thick Irish accent. "I'm Isobel and this here is Meredith."

I give them a smile back and so does Cecelia. "I'm Cecelia," my sister says, "and these are my sisters, April Grace and Lottie."

"Hello," I say, then touch Lottie's shoulder. "Say hello, Lottie."

"Hi," she peeps, pressing her face into the fabric of my skirt.

"She's a little shy," I say.

"That's perfectly alright, darling," Isobel says. "You don't have to say a word to us if you don't want to."

Lottie looks up at me and smiles, and I grin back. I like this Isobel, and I'm sure my little sister will too, after she warms to her a bit.

We set our things down on our respective bunks - Cecelia on top and me and Lottie on the bottom - and I open my violin case to make sure everything is in its place. As soon as I do, I feel eyes on me from behind, and I turn around to find Isobel studying my instrument.

"Up a bit on C-deck is the third class lounge," she says, catching my eye. "There's a baby grand piano there. Saw it when we came in." She gestures to my violin. "I'm sure they'd appreciate your playing."

Lottie's face lights up. "Can we go, Gracie?" she asks me.

"Sure," I say. "Let's go see what it's like. Ceci, will you come?"

Our oldest sister agrees and climbs down from her bunk, and we bid Isobel and Meredith goodbye to make our way up to C-deck. With so many people milling about, finding their cabins and getting comfortable, it takes a bit of time - but we do eventually locate the lounge.

It's a comfortable space with easy chairs and wicker furniture, decorated in pretty browns, yellows, and greens. "Look at these massive chairs!" Lottie says, leaping onto the nearest one.

"Be a lady," Cecelia reminds her - not too sternly, though. She's just as entranced with the room as any of us.

There are a few men at the piano, plunking out a tune. The instrument sounds great and, even though their playing is a bit stilted, it's nice to hear familiar music. It makes me feel at home.

I've never been shy, so I take my violin out of its case, rosin up the bow, and approach them without hesitating. "Can I join you?" I ask.

"Find your way in," one says with a grin, and we start to play Sonatina In G Major Op.100 by Dvorak.

My fingers move fluidly and the bow glides against the strings in the way it was meant to do. I close my eyes and lose myself in the steady, jaunty tune, and by the time it's over, everyone is clapping. My sisters, of course, cheer the loudest.

"You can really play, can't you?" one of the men asks. "If you find a way to sneak to the promenade, you should have a listen to the string quintet. They're bloody amazing."

I look at my sisters with excitement. "Should we go?" I ask.

"We're not allowed on the promenade," Cecelia reminds me. "Or anywhere on A-deck."

"Why not?" Lottie asks.

I smirk and repeat my little sister's question. "Right," I say, "why not?"

…

The key to sneaking someplace is acting like you fit in. Though we're not quite dressed to the nines in the way the first class passengers are, we hold our heads high, lift our chins, and pretend like we belong. Therefore, no one questions our presence.

It's impossible to miss the string quintet; all we have to do is follow the music. Even over the wind and low hum of the ship, the crisp sweetness of the strings pierces the air.

They're playing Eine Kleine Nacht Musik by Mozart, an easily recognizable tune that makes Lottie start to dance. I take one of her hands and twirl her in a circle, enjoying the sound of her light laughter, and watch her flaming hair spin as she does. Cecelia grins, too, as she watches our little sister's joy.

When the song ends, we clap along with a few others who had been listening. The quintet moves on to play something by Boccherini and Cecelia stands close, resting one hand on my shoulder. "It's almost strange to see people playing without their hats out for coins," she says.

I glance over and know exactly what she's remembering. The three of us on the streets of New York City, before we left for Southampton, trying to collect enough coins to put food on the table. I would play every song I knew and she would try, fruitlessly, to sell roses. Because our mother was at home running the laundry out of our house, we had baby Lottie with us, swaddled in burlap.

Winter on the street was unforgiving. The days we went home with chapped faces, stiff fingers, and empty pockets were even more so.

"Why would people put out their hats?" Lottie asks, none the wiser.

Cecelia and I exchange a look before painting over our expressions for her. "Should we go see the water?" Cecelia suggests, taking Lottie by the hand. "I bet we might even spot a fish."

Lottie agrees with vigor and they head to the railing as I stay to listen to the rest of the Boccherini piece. I stand with my hands folded at my waist and allow myself to get lost in the spritely sounds of the violin, the mid-grade tone of the viola, and the deep, comforting bass of the cello. The sounds of the instruments flow together so effortlessly.

As I listen to the layers of the quintet, I take notice of the single other person who's paying attention, too. A sharply-dressed young man with bronze skin, who is clearly at home here in first class. He's concentrated on the song in a way that only a string player would be. I have no doubt that he's either a violinist, a violist, or a cellist - just like the quintet players. Just like me.

His eyes don't move from their instruments for a long time, a very long time. But when he does eventually shift his gaze, he shifts it towards me.

I look away quickly - I don't want to be caught staring, and I don't need him questioning my presence, because the last thing I want is for us to be asked to leave the promenade. I'm enjoying the fresh air and the music here.

And the view, too. I'm enjoying that very much.

When I dare to look back, he's once again concentrated on the pace of the Boccherini piece, which gives me ample opportunity to study his features. His fingers are long and lean, he's quite tall, and his hair is closely shaven. His eyes are the same color as the water coursing 50 feet below us, a shade of blue I've never seen.

There's a certain sadness just underneath the surface, too, that he's trying - and failing - to hide. It's as plain as the nose on his face.

I can barely hold back the urge; I want badly to go and speak to him. But, just before I can, a woman comes up from behind and takes his elbow so suddenly that it makes him jump.

"Jackson, let's go," she says. I can barely make out her words over the wind, but the gist is clear enough. "You're wasting everyone's time by standing here and listening to this drivel."

Drivel? This is the furthest thing from drivel that I can think of.

I furrow my eyebrows as she leads him away, up the promenade steps, and track them until they disappear. I watch the space that he vacated for a few moments longer, then leave the quintet to rejoin my sisters.

…

That night, the sound of the engine is a lullaby for third class passengers. Luckily, my sisters and I are adept at falling asleep most anywhere, so the noise doesn't bother us. It doesn't seem to bother Isobel or Meredith, either.

Cecelia falls asleep straight away. I hear her steady breathing coming from the top bunk only moments after she lies down. Lottie, on the other hand, isn't quite ready to drift off.

"Tell me a story, Gracie," she says.

I lie next to her on my stomach, looking at her cherubic, freckled face. "Which one," I whisper, then stroke her cheek.

"The Great Good Place," she says. Her eyelids are already growing heavy, and she's blinking slowly now.

"Okay," I say. "Once upon a time, there lived a man named George Dane who stayed up all through the night trying to finish his work. And one strange morning, when he woke, he was met with a lovely, beautiful breakfast along with a guest. After they finished eating, he blinked his eyes and opened them up into a brand new world."

"The great good place," Lottie whispers.

"Exactly," I say. "He spent some time relaxing in the great good place, relishing his peace and quiet, soaking up the sunshine, and taking long, restful naps." I touch her nose with the tip of my finger. "Mr. Dane spent quite a long while there, getting his thoughts in order and thoroughly enjoying his time away from home. After three weeks there, he was woken up - after a refreshing 8 hours of sleep, mind you - and he was once again back home. His vision from before had gone, but his study had been straightened and he felt the same sense of peace that he felt in the great good place."

Lottie's eyes close and her lips go slack, so I press a kiss to her face.

"Good night, my love," I say, then switch off the light.

…

Although my sisters fall asleep quickly, I'm not so lucky. It's not that I'm uncomfortable, because the beds are accommodating, but I'm not tired in the slightest.

Without waking Lottie, I climb out of bed and slip my day clothes back on. I hurry through F-Deck, taking the same route that we took earlier in the day, and find my way - once again - to the promenade. Maybe hearing the quintet play for a while will lull me into a state of sleepiness.

They're stationed in the same place, this time playing a piece by Bach that I know well. It's so infectious that I almost wish I would've brought my fiddle up from our cabin.

As I scan the A-Deck, I notice that someone else had a similar thought. There's a violin case tucked under a nearby chair, and when I raise my eyes to find who's sitting there, I spot the same young man from this afternoon, the one who had been pulled away by the woman who called this music 'drivel.' He's back, listening just as intensely as he was before.

Even though I should be watching the quintet, I can't take my eyes off of him. The way he studies them is enchanting - it's like he's lost in the notes and completely immersed in their music. I know the feeling well, but I've never met another person who feels the same.

It makes me want to say something. But, it's not only wrong to disturb him - if I call attention to myself, he could very well have me sent back down to F-Deck. Not that F-Deck is a horrible place, but at the moment I'd much rather be here on the promenade with him.

And the quintet, of course.

I look back to the players, but the young man speaks not long after I tear my eyes from him.

"You were here this afternoon," he states.

I glance over for a moment, then turn back to the quintet. He is most definitely addressing me.

"Yes," I mutter, lacing my fingers together.

I take a risk and look at him again to find his eyes already on me. I make contact for only a beat before lowering my eyes to the instrument case beneath his chair.

He follows my gaze, then shifts his foot in front of the case almost as if he's trying to hide what I've already seen. "Stupid, I know," he says. "What did I think, that they would ask me to join them?"

"My mind was in the same place," I say. "I had a thought that I wished I would've brought my fiddle up."

He looks interested when he says, "You play?"

I nod.

"Where is it?" he asks. "Your violin."

"In my cabin on F-Deck," I say. There's no use lying. He doesn't seem like the type to have me thrown out, anyway.

"F-Deck," he repeats, realizing that I am technically not welcome here and I wasn't this afternoon, either.

"Yes," I say. "My violin used to be my mother's, and she passed it down to me." I look at the case between his feet. "Is yours new?"

"I bought it as a gift for myself," he says. "It's the only thing on this earth that truly belongs to me." He meets my eyes with a weighty expression. "Do you know how that feels?"

"Yes," I answer, though I imagine I understand his sentiment in a different way than he assumes I do. "Could I see it?"

"Of course," he says. "Though you may need to come closer."

I smile softly at his light, joking tone and get up from where I'd been sitting. He stands, taking the case with him, and opens it so I can see inside once I'm nearer.

"It's a Stradivarius," he says.

The instrument resting on the plush velvet is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The spruce of its front plate gleams in the low light, and the strings are taut and shining. I drink in the sight, not daring to touch it, as I skim over its full body. I've always thought that my violin was beautiful, but this one is on an entirely different level.

All at once, the horn of the ship blasts and makes Jackson startle. He flinches so badly that his arms shudder and his violin topples from its case, skating along the pine planks with surprising speed. It's headed right for the edge of the ship and the water toiling below.

"No!" Jackson exclaims.

He starts to run, but I'm faster. I hitch up my skirt and hurry towards the violin, diving and securing my hand around its neck right before it slides off the deck and into the Atlantic Ocean.

I don't loosen my grip even when I'm sure I have it, as my heart still pounds in my throat and my hands tremble horribly. Not only did the violin get close to the edge - I did, too, in a stupid show of confidence.

"My god!" Jackson says, running over to meet me. He extends a hand to help me to my feet, and I take it.

As soon as his fingers close around mine, electricity courses through my veins. I'm a live wire, buzzing and burning, until he lets go.

"You shouldn't have done that," he says, his thick eyebrows coming together in a worried expression. "You could've gone over."

"I didn't think," I say. "I just acted. I didn't want you to lose your violin."

As I say the words, I realize that I'm still clutching his precious instrument to my chest like it's a human child.

"I'm sorry," I say, handing it back. "Here."

He looks at it for a long moment in a strange manner - like it belongs to me and I'm giving it over as a gift.

"Why would you do that?" he asks. He still hasn't taken back his instrument, and I must admit that its weight is pleasant in my hands. "You don't know me. Why would you take such a risk for my violin?"

I hold the instrument to my chest once again. It feels better to keep it close, better than dangling between us. "Because it matters to you," I say.

"But you don't know me," he says. "Why should you care?"

"Why shouldn't I?" I ask.

He takes a deep breath and looks down, shoving his hands into his pockets, then stays quiet for a long time. When he speaks again, his words surprise me.

"I'd like to hear you play," he says. "Would you care to try it out? It's only right, since you saved it like you did."

"You want me to play?" I ask. "This violin, your violin?"

He nods. "If you'd like to," he says.

Of course, I'd like to. I unfold it from my chest and position my chin on the chin rest, then get comfortable with the bow once he gives it to me. I play a few notes to warm up, to tune it in the chilly nighttime air, then I start to play.

With my eyes closed, I play the first bit of Violin Sonata No. 3 by Brahms. Not the whole thing, as it's over 20 minutes long, but enough to get a feel for this instrument and what it can do.

When I finish, I open my eyes to find Jackson looking at me with what can only be described as wonder. "It's never been played like that before," he says.

I untuck the violin from beneath my chin and shake my head, unwilling to accept his compliment. But before I can speak, a much louder voice takes my place in the conversation.

"You there!" a man shouts. "Drop that instrument. This instant!"

Before I fully understand what's happening, I've been knocked to the ground. I land hard on my elbows and the violin is snatched from my grip by a man in a tuxedo, the one who took the liberty of tackling me. With our faces only inches apart, I've never been more afraid than I am when I look into his unkind gray eyes.

"Get off of her!" Jackson shouts, pulling the man up and away with an impressive degree of strength. "She's not doing anything wrong."

"Sir," the man says.

Jackson gets to his knees beside me, using one hand to support my shoulders and the other to gently swipe my hair out of my eyes. "I'm very sorry," he says. "Please, accept my apology." He shoots a glare at the man who attacked me. "My father's men have no idea how to treat a lady."

"A 'lady'," the man mutters, "from third class."

How he knows I'm not one of them, I have no idea. It must be more obvious than I assumed.

"It doesn't matter where she's from, you harassed her," Jackson says, then looks back at me. "Are you all right?" he asks. "I just realized that I never asked for your name. I'm very sorry. I'm very sorry for all of this."

"I'm all right," I say, though I'm still shaking. The biting wind isn't helping matters - I'm only just realizing how cold it is on the A-Deck, now that the magic of the evening is wearing off, and I've never dealt well with the cold.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

I run my hands up and down my arms and do the same for my legs. "Unscathed," I say. "Except for my pride. That may be a bit wounded."

Jackson smiles and his whole face brightens. "I should be the one who's ashamed," he says. "Or, rather, Milnard should." He stands up and helps me to my feet, handling me with care - more care than I've ever been shown by a man, especially one of his rank. "Please, there must be some way that I can make this up to you. And a way for me to thank you for saving my violin."

I shake my head and straighten my dress, dusting off the skirt and feeling self-conscious. "That's not necessary," I say.

All I want is to escape, to leave the promenade and not come back. It will be disappointing not to see Jackson or hear the quintet again, but I wouldn't ever like to repeat the situation with his security. It brought back memories of being manhandled on the street, memories I'd much rather lose.

But, unlike my time spent on the streets being roughed up by the men of New York City, Jackson helped me up and made sure I was unharmed. As of this moment, he's still looking at me with concern, like he's genuinely worried about my condition.

"It is very necessary," he says. "Come to dinner with me tomorrow night, at The Restaurant." He takes my hand in both of his, then raises it to his lips. He kisses my knuckles, then rubs my skin to warm it. "Please," he says. "Let me thank you. And…see you again. I would like to see you again, April Grace."

Pensively, I lift my eyes to meet his as he continues to hold my hand. I think of our class disparities and how differently he lives from the way I do. I think of the fact that I have nothing to wear that will suit the occasion. I think of his aggressive bodyguard, who will undoubtedly be in attendance as well.

But then, I think of his love for music - so similar to my own. I think of the way his voice sounded like warm honey when he said my name. I think of the way he's still holding my hand and looking at me like he truly sees me for who I am.

Taking all of that into consideration, I take a deep breath and accept his invitation.