-Hi, guys! I have some more Minewt for you and I really hope you like it. Now that I have some free time, I finally got around to writing this little fic. I sincerely hope you enjoy it because I know some of you have been waiting a long time for it. :)-

-UNSINKABLE-

-DAY ONE-

It was late, on a lonely ship, and Isaac Newton had never known such silence as this. It was as though the world itself held its breath. He could hear the faint shifting of the waves against the hull, the inner mechanical workings of the ship itself, but other than that, it was black impenetrable silence. The floor was carpeted and made soft noises beneath his shoes. They were shoes of the wealthy, as were his clothes, even if he was wearing only trousers and the most casual shirt he owned.

Father would greatly disapprove, he thought, as he crept down the deserted hallway. Then a smile quirked his lips. Good thing his father wasn't here.

The prestigious and very rich Mitchell Newton had chosen not to accompany his son on another—oh, what did he call it?—"rather stupid picture-taking session at sea." In other terms, he didn't want to watch Newt photograph the famed ship for however long it took to cross the ocean. What a waste of time and energy for a few photographs.

Newt didn't think so, however. Even now, he ran his fingers reverently along the walls, gazed around at their pristine whiteness. This was truly a beautiful ship, a masterpiece. He was lucky he'd gotten a ticket when he did. Now, he was able to do two things he loved: see his overseas relatives after the crossing and photograph the Titanic on his way there. He was bursting with excitement inside to think of their reactions.

Tonight though, wasn't about pictures. Tonight was about exploring. Newt didn't much care for the other members of upper class. They often frowned upon his profession and the fact that he was wasting the money his father gave to him. The Newton's were filthy rich and most of them acted like it, just as snobby and stuck-up as everyone else behind these carven doors. Except for Newt.

Newt would rather do what he wanted without judging eyes on him. So here he was, at some dastardly hour of the night, creeping about the ship. He prayed that no one would wake up and catch him. Upper class or not, that would be a hard thing to explain away without ending up with some unwanted company. Company wasn't something he needed tonight.

Reaching a curious little door, Newt paused. It must've been the end of the hall. Curious, he peered out through the tiny window. To his surprise, he found himself looking out onto a deck. It was moonwashed with silver light and above, he glimpsed a sliver of night sky. Considering it, he tugged down the sleeves of his shirt. It was undoubtedly cold out there...but he wasn't in his pajamas for God's sake...no, still, better not...Oh, maybe just one look...

Bracing himself for the chill, he pulled open the door. A creak sounded from the hinges, making him grimace. Fortunately, nobody was around to hear and no doors swung open to investigate. Breathing out in relief, Newt slipped outside. There was a soft click as he carefully shut the door and leaned back against it. "Oh..." he trailed off, gazing upward, head tipped back on the wood. The sky was a breathing creature, pulsing with brilliant diamonds for stars. Newt fought the urge to reach up, as though he could touch one and pull it down.

"Wow," he breathed. He was just about to venture a step further out, when he heard the most peculiar sound.

Guitar strings being plucked.

Newt dropped his gaze from the sky and looked out across the deck. The sound was beautiful, but in a very simple way. Notes chosen here and there from strings and let loose to fly away like a flock of birds. It was like someone was allowing their fingers to work away at the instrument without a care as to what song was produced. Newt stepped away from the door, intrigued. He was never an instrumental type. It was always very impressive to him when he happened to meet someone with such skill. Wandering out into the night, he searched the ship for the source of the music. There was the rail that ringed the upper deck, curving out near the prow, then some...machinery he didn't have the slightest clue about. Rope. Barrels. Lifeboats tied down.

Then he stopped.

Standing with back against the railing, was a boy. He looked to be no older than Newt himself, though he was taller. Cradled in his hands was a beaten guitar and the strap was snug around his shoulder. His lips held a fond curve to them as he played, much like the curve of the instrument itself. Newt had a silly thought that the two were joined somehow as one being making music. He studied the boy in the few seconds he had before he was noticed. The boy wasn't much: scuffed shoes and pants, a button-down shirt that had seen better days, with a jagged rip at the collar. It didn't take a genius to know that he didn't have much money. But then he glanced up and when his eyes snagged Newt's, they were the color of chocolate.

Newt couldn't look away.

The boy's mouth tilted at the corner. "Enjoying the performance?"

"Um." Ears burning, Newt shifted his feet. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Don't worry about it," the boy reassured. "Just not used to someone like you coming to watch...well, someone like me." A knowing, teasing glint was in his eyes and Newt wasn't sure he liked it.

"What do you mean, 'someone like me?'" he asked defensively.

"You're one of those rich upper-class ones, aren't you?"

"How would you know?"

"I can spot one a mile away."

"How so?"

The boy arched a brow, taking in Newt's body with a sweep of his eyes. Newt fought the urge to cross his arms. "Please," the boy scoffed. "Too easy." He began pointing at every article of clothing Newt wore, saying, "your shoes are clean enough for a blind man to find them, you probably ironed those pants before you came out here tonight, and let me guess...that's the most casual shirt you own and it still reeks of money."

Newt would've loved to punch him. "So what's your point?" he demanded. "To prove that we 'rich upper-class' are just a bunch of snobs that would rather sleep than listen to you?"

"Stole the words right out of my mouth," the boy replied cheekily.

"Fine. Then I guess this conversation is over." Newt tried for a glare, but it failed miserably when the boy responded with a happy little wave. God, Newt wanted to shove him overboard. "I hope your fingers freeze to the strings," he snapped, before turning away and marching off. The annoyance buzzing inside of him wasn't even fully directed at the boy. It was at the rest of the wealthy on this boat. How could they let themselves make such an awful reputation? Was this really how people saw them, saw Newt? He halted by the door, one hand resting on the handle. Fighting with himself for a moment, he finally glanced back over his shoulder. "I was enjoying it, by the way."

The boy blinked at him in confusion. "What?"

"The performance," Newt reminded him. "We upper-class snobs might not like to recognize talents better than ours but..." He looked away. "I thought your playing was very beautiful." Now, he pulled open the door, ready to crawl back into bed and forget this night altogether.

He was held back by a quiet, "thank you."

Surprised, Newt glanced back again. The boy wasn't looking at him. He kept his gaze on his shoes and his fingers still on the strings. Newt felt a few traces of anger slip away. "You're welcome."

"And, uh..." The boy cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sorry. About calling you a snob." Humor edged into his voice at the end and he gave an apologetic smile. "I haven't had much luck with people like you."

Newt knew that he had two choices right now. One seemed much safer. He wasn't one for safe choices, however. So he let his hand fall from the door and headed out onto the deck once more. "Please stop calling them people like me," he groaned in despair, tipping his head back. "I'm nothing like them."

The boy snorted. "I find that very hard to believe. Everyone with money is the same in some ways."

"Well, I don't believe that," Newt protested, suddenly irritated again.

"Look at what you're wearing. Right now. In the middle of the night."

Waving an arm at himself, Newt scowled at the boy with sparking blue eyes. "What's wrong with this?"

"I would wear that to dinner at the Queen's wedding," the boy told him pointedly. He set a heel on one of the lower railings behind him for more support, adjusting the guitar in his grip. "And you're wearing it to a nighttime outing on a ship." At Newt's darkening expression, he added, "please don't take offense, though, Mr...uhh..." He twirled a finger, like he would pluck the name out of thin air.

Heaving out a rough breath, Newt stuck his hand out grudgingly. "Isaac Newton. Everybody calls me Newt, though."

"Cute," the boy remarked, ignoring how Newt's eyebrows rose at the comment. Instead, he took Newt's hand in his own and shook. "I'm Minho. Everybody calls me Minho."

Newt narrowed his eyes. "Are you this insufferable with everybody you meet or am I an exception?"

"Such rude words from a gentleman," Minho teased and splayed hand at his chest. "I'm appalled."

"Please. Two minutes ago, you were calling me names and now you're scolding ME for being rude?"

"It was VERY rude, though, Sir Newton."

Newt raised an eyebrow. "We aren't in medieval times," he pointed out.

"So?" Minho asked dumbly.

"So, I'm hardly called 'Sir Newton,' by anyone." Newt's voice failed him at the end, however, and he found himself snickering at Minho. Despite his initial response, Minho was really very fun to talk to. Newt hadn't expected it. He hadn't been expecting to make a new friend so fast on this ship at all, to be honest. It was so large and full of different people he'd never seen before; he hadn't thought he'd have the slightest clue what to say to anybody.

But he and Minho spoke as though they were old friends. Everything came easily and Newt held onto a secret hope that they might even meet again after the night was over.

"Are you traveling to see relatives?" he asked suddenly, curiosity getting the better of him. Minho glanced up in surprise and Newt hurried on, "or something else...?"

"I hardly have any relatives anymore," Minho replied. The touch of lightheartedness remained in his tone, but there was seriousness there as well. "Wars and sickness took them all except my mother, and she's back home."

"I'm sorry," Newt murmured, heart momentarily shadowed. Imagine, losing an entire family to the hardships that had already taken so many. But Minho's lips curved up into a grateful half-smile and Newt's world lightened again. "So, you're looking for work then? Something new? There are only so many reasons one can travel."

Minho laughed then, a bright spark of laughter that was like the lighting of a thousand candles. When he spoke, his voice still rang with it. "I'm traveling for the sake of traveling," he answered, that cocky, smart air about him once more. "What better way to do that than to travel on the famed Titanic, right?"

Newt had to return that brilliant smile. "You have a point, yes."

"What're you here for then?" Minho asked, shifting the guitar in his grip and sending a stray note floating into the air.

"I'm a bit of a photographer," Newt answered sheepishly. Noticing Minho's raised eyebrows, he sighed. "I know; not the grand profession you expected me to have."

A smirk ghosted over Minho's face. "So you're taking pictures here."

"Well, yes, but I'm also going to see some cousins of mine when we land."

"That makes sense then. And here I thought you were traveling in hopes of meeting someone as devilishly handsome as me." Newt lifted his head at that, just in time to catch Minho winking mischievously at him. Despite himself, a hot flush threatened to creep up his neck. There was just—something about Minho that was suddenly captivating, with his jagged hair stirring in the wind and matching the exact shade of black the sky was. Newt found that he had to study the deck at once, clearing his throat.

"Perhaps I was hoping to avoid strangers who spent their nights keeping everyone else awake with their 'performances,'" he joked.

Minho's eyes flickered playfully. "And perhaps I was trying to avoid wealthy photographers who spent THEIR nights poking their noses into other people's business."

"Why, you little—"

"Manners, Isaac," Minho reminded lightly. But he lifted his chin when he said it, taking on the air of the exact kind of upper-class snobbishness Newt recognized on a daily basis.

Newt actually snorted. "You look ridiculous," he sniggered.

"Ah, but I'd fit right in with your friends, wouldn't I?" Minho returned.

"Sadly, yes."

The two shared companionable laughter, together out on the deck. The air was icy with the cold of the sea and the great sounds of the ship slicing through water were all around them. Newt couldn't remember a time when his heart was lighter than it was right now. It was more of a disappointment than he had expected when Minho suddenly glanced down at an old, worn watch and stepped away from the railing. "Oh. I didn't realize how late it was..."

"You have to go?" Newt asked. He was unable to stop how his face fell.

"Cheer up." Playful, Minho leaned an elbow on Newt's shoulder, a half-grin dancing across his lips. "I'm sure we'll see each other again. It's not as though I can walk off this ship anytime I want."

Newt shook his head and marveled at the sudden skittering of his heart. "I'll look for you then, the next time I hear someone complaining about the idiot out playing a guitar on the deck."

Laughing, Minho bumped their shoulders together companionably. "I'm sure you will," he replied. His eyes were soft and still fixed on Newt as he took a step back. "Goodnight, Newt."

Newt lifted a hand in a tiny wave, a strange little feeling stirring inside of him. "Goodnight, Minho."

Then he was left alone with the waves and the sky, wondering how soon he would meet that lovely musician again.