Chapter Text
Titanic had sailed from Southampton a half hour before. Newt and Minho had stayed up on deck, drinking in the sights - and witnessing the liner’s near collision with another ship, ironically called the New York - before finally deciding to head downstairs and search for their room, the deck rapidly emptying around them.
Newt was stunned. Beneath the surface, Titanic was a literal rabbit warren of corridors, all of them packed with people, suitcases and belongings as everyone settled in. They had to stop and ask for directions twice from passengers as equally lost as they were, before finally resorting to simply following the little arrows on the wall signs, as few and far between as they were.
“Here, Minho!” Newt suddenly shouted, double checking their tickets. “It’s this one!”
Sauntering over, Minho grinned at the sign on the entrance. “Well, I guess this is home sweet home,” he said, pushing the door open.
Newt smiled. “For the next week, anyway -”
He stopped suddenly, staring. It was the nicest, cleanest accommodation they had seen in a long while. The room was small, but had adequate space for two sets of stacked beds, and a washbasin in the middle of the far wall. Everything was tidy, the cots perfectly made and the floors scrubbed clean.
“I got top bunk!” Newt suddenly shouted, darting forward.
Minho, however, grabbed the rungs and easily swung himself up onto one of the top beds. “Too slow,” he grinned.
The door opened again and two young men entered the room.
“You must be our roommates!” one of them exclaimed, tall and gangly with a grin on his face. He extended his hand as Minho jumped off the bed to join them. “I’m Winston.”
“Sigmund,” his dark-skinned friend introduced himself as, “but everyone calls me Frypan, or Fry. I’m a dab hand at cooking,” he explained.
Newt grinned, shaking his hand after Minho. “Good that. I’m Newt, and this idiot is Minho.”
“Oi!”
“Nice to meet y’all,” Frypan laughed.
“Ahh, yes!” Winston flopped down onto one of the beds, grinning as he sank his head back into the soft pillow. “I could get used to this!”
Newt threw his bag on the bed beneath Minho’s claimed one, glancing about in admiration. It wasn’t much - and nowhere near to the standard of elegancy set for first class - but it was comfortable, and for now it was home. “Yeah, it’s not bad,” he reckoned with a smile. “Not bad at all.”
o-o-o-o-o
Titanic steamed into the open ocean, with nothing on the horizon but the wondrous United States of America. Like many of the passengers, Newt and Minho were out on the poop deck enjoying the sunshine, appreciating the warmth in the air while they still could - they both knew the temperature would plummet within days of them venturing into the Atlantic. Even now, the wind blustering about the decks hinted at the cold spells to come.
There was a soft jingling sound. Newt turned his head just as two White Star Line officers hastened past, led by a horde of undoubtedly first class pooches of all kinds. It was a fair hike from the kennels way below on F Deck.
“Typical, isn’t it?” a nearby boy their age growled, rolling his eyes. Newt couldn’t stop staring at the sharp slant of his eyebrows. “They bring the first class dogs over here to take a sh—” He glanced at the kid sitting on the deck next to them. “Ah, toilet,” he finished hastily.
“I’m not that innocent,” the kid retorted. “I’m thirteen.”
Newt smiled. “Grown man,” he agreed solemnly.
He beamed in response. “See?” He puffed his chest up. “I’m Chuck. Ma and Pa are over there,” he added, pointing to the couple standing at the railings, talking.
Newt reached out and shook his hand. “I’m Newt, and this is Minho.”
“I’m Gally,” the boy with wicked eyebrows said, joining in the handshakes.
Minho nodded at them both. “Howdy.”
They all watched the dogs for another moment, one of them tugging frantically at its leash, the poor attached officer struggling to grip the lead.
“We used to have a dog. A sheepdog,” Chuck said. “His name was Bark.”
“Any particular reason?” Minho asked, grinning. Newt shoved him.
“It’s what I called him when I was little,” Chuck said with a shrug. “After a while it was the only thing he would answer to. That’s what Pa says, anyway.”
Newt smiled, fondness seeping into his expression. His own family had had a dog, once upon a time.
Losing himself in his memories, Newt’s gaze drifted across the decks, watching the other passengers as they went about, talking and laughing and others playing.
And that’s when he saw him.
A boy, about his own age, standing at the upper class railings, looking out towards the ocean with his hands clasped. There was a wretched despair on his face that Newt didn’t quite like. It didn’t suit a face as lovely as his.
He had been staring too long.
Newt felt his face grow hot as the young man caught his gaze ... but didn’t look away. With nothing to lose, Newt waved a hand in greeting.
The other boy glanced about in clear confusion before seeming to realise that, yes, the gesture was directed at him. Visibly hesitant, he raised his own hand.
A grin split Newt’s face.
An idea striking him, he turned a page in his folder, scribbling across the paper.
Hey, my name’s Newt. What’s yours?
Folding the paper in neat, careful lines until it resembled a paper airplane, he then threw it in the boy’s direction.
Within moments, it was picked up by a gust of wind. It arced wildly, disappearing out into the ocean.
They both stared after it for a long few moments, and Newt started to laugh, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. That Mother Nature would magically cease to exist so he could deliver his highly important message?
Hell, though, it was worth it for the grin that lit up the other boy’s face, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
Maybe ... maybe not all first class people were utter snobs.
An older man suddenly appeared behind the boy and grabbed his arm, wrenching him around to look at him. The smile vanished from the boy’s face; Newt winced at how uncomfortable he suddenly looked as he received what was unmistakably a reprimand.
“Your eyes are about to fall out of your head,” Minho told him.
Newt turned to glare at him, and when he looked back, the boy was gone.
Fingers scrabbling for his pencil, Newt hurriedly turned the page of his sketchbook and began to draw onto the fresh sheet of paper.
o-o-o-o-o
Lying on one of the benches on Titanic’s poop deck, Newt stared up at the stars, a quiet awe thrumming away in his heart. He could hardly believe he was here, on the grandest ship in the world, on his way to America.
Someone ran past him.
Pushing himself up onto his elbow, Newt stared after them, catching a glimpse of white, the tail of a tuxedo -
His thoughts stuttered to a halt. But no, it couldn’t be -
He ran after the person, his heart hammering in his chest.
The stranger crashed to a stop, clutching the railing beside the flagpole at the very end of the ship, his entire body shuddering as he leaned over the metal bars.
No, oh no -
Panic slamming through him, Newt forced himself to stop, knowing he had to approach with the utmost care. He cleared his throat. “Hey, you alright there, mate?”
The person spun around, staring at Newt with a haggard, desperate expression, tears streaming down his face.
It was the same boy Newt had seen across the decks.
He suddenly collapsed.
Newt hurtled forward, crashing to his knees beside the stranger and grabbing his shoulders. “Hey,” he said again. “Hey, look at me, shank.”
Choking, the boy wrenched his head up, staring at Newt, visibly struggling to focus.
Newt felt something shatter in his chest. “What’s your name, love?” he whispered.
The boy swallowed thickly, a shudder rolling through his body. His gaze sharpened for the briefest of moments. “Thomas Edison Greene the Second.”
Newt blinked. “Bloody hell, that’s a mouthful,” he commented with the barest trace of a smile. “Mind if I call you Tommy?”
Thomas jerked his head, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he rasped.
Newt squeezed his shoulders in an attempt to keep him grounded. “Good that. My name’s Newton Isaacs, but you can call me Newt.”
A hysterical laugh burst from Thomas’s mouth. Newt was relieved to see his panic thrown for one blessed moment. Good, that’s good.
“Newt?” Thomas repeated weakly.
Newt shrugged, grinning wryly. “My idiot friend gave me the nickname and it stuck. Now, what’s rocking around in that buggin’ head of yours?”
o-o-o-o-o
Sitting in one of the steerage common areas, Newt could barely stop thinking about the previous night, that final moment when Thomas had stared into his eyes before taking off into the darkness, leaving Newt both curious and worried as he crouched on Titanic’s rear deck.
How had he become so entranced within those brief few moments?
He shook his head coming back to the conversation at hand.
“He was making heart eyes at this first class shank on the upper decks,” Minho was telling their new friends. Newt rolled his eyes, hard, giving him a shove.
“He was practically drooling,” Gally confirmed with a laugh. He shook his head at Newt. “Mate, you’re as likely to have angels flying out of your shuck ass as get next to the likes of him -”
“Bugger off, Gal,” Newt grinned. “Didn’t you see the smile when I threw the note at him -?”
“A note!” Winston groaned. “You sap!”
“It was nothing, Win. It literally just said hi -”
Minho suddenly punched his shoulder. “Salamander, look!” he hissed.
“Ow! What -?!”
Newt looked up, and time slowed. Thomas was walking towards him. Thomas.
His jaw dropped. Goodness, he was just as gorgeous as he had been the morning before. But what on earth was he doing here? His heart began to pound as Thomas came to a stop in front of him.
The silence stretched.
“Uh, Newt, right?” Thomas finally began, audibly nervous.
Despite his visible anxiety - Newt had no doubt he had never ventured into a third class area before - there was a quiet resolve to his expression that Newt couldn’t help admiring.
Newt threw him his warmest smile. “That’s me,” he said, hoping to all hell that he wasn’t blushing; he had a tendency to do that, as Minho liked to tease him. “What can I do for ya, Tommy?”
Thomas was silent for a moment, fidgeting with his coat sleeve. He was quiet for so long that Newt wondered if he should take the lead, opening his mouth -
“Uh, can I - can I speak with you?” Thomas suddenly blurted out. “In private?”
Surprise flashed across Newt’s face, but he quickly hid it. “Alright, mate.” He glanced towards the staircase, overly conscious of the eager eyes and ears sitting around him. He knew Minho was about to have an absolute field day. “It’s a bit windy out on deck, though.”
Thomas, thankfully, took the hint; they wouldn’t be overheard. He smiled at Newt. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”
He strode off towards the staircase as Newt began to gather his things, and Newt let him. Thomas was clearly incredibly nervous, and if he needed that brief moment to regain his composure, then who was he to judge?
Minho gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “Shuck, man. You’re in so deep already.”
Grinning, Newt swatted at him with his sketchpad. “Not. Another. Word.”
“When’s the wedding?” Minho called after him as he walked off.
Not turning around, Newt flipped him off.
o-o-o-o-o
“You don’t love her.”
Newt watched Thomas closely, trying to gauge his reaction. He had been curious from the moment he had seen Thomas’s bare ring finger - which he distinctly remembered being adorned the previous night. He could still picture the intricate lines etched into the silver like a maze.
Thomas slowly shook his head. “She’s my best friend,” he said. “Our families have known one another since we were children. It’s an arranged marriage, I guess; a union of two upper class families,” he monotoned. “We were destined to be together, apparently.”
Newt mulled over that for a moment. He couldn’t imagine what that must be like, to be tied down in such a way - and at such a young age! “That’s ... a fair weight to carry,” he finally said.
“And you saw how that turned out,” Thomas said glumly. “Teresa’s amazing, but every time I hear our future together being discussed, I can’t help but feel backed into a corner.” He turned away, and Newt longed to reach out to him. “I should be grateful. I know I should be. But I just can’t. There’s an entire world out there that I want to see, but I’m chained to the grand scheme my father’s had in place since my birth. I just regret Teresa being dragged into this whole mess, too.”
Newt hummed quietly in acknowledgment, opening his mouth to speak when Thomas suddenly looked about anxiously, his cheeks flushing in shame.
“Forgive me, this is not a suitable topic of conversation,” he garbled. He shook his head jerkily. “I’m being rude -”
Warm laughter bubbled in Newt’s throat. “Tommy, really, it’s fine -”
“I’m usually a fun date -”
Thomas’s jaw went slack as he stared at Newt in horror. Even as a wicked grin flashed across his face, Newt’s heart near burst with fondness at the endearing boy he had found himself in the company of, so far removed from his upper class counterparts.
“We’re on a date now, huh, Tommy?” he laughed, his eyes twinkling.
“I - uh - no,” Thomas stammered, visibly mortified. “I - sorry -”
Newt shook his head, clapping him on the back. “Relax, Thomas,” he said, still chuckling. “Admittedly, you could do far worse than yours truly.”
It was a tease he wholeheartedly meant, if Thomas was so inclined. He watched as the corners of Thomas’s mouth tugged upwards; a moment later he started laughing, Newt quickly joining in.
When quiet fell again, Newt held up the thin leather folder he had carried all the way from the common area, deciding to take a chance. Something about Thomas made Newt want to trust him; made him want to put his whole heart in his hands and let him cradle it. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
They sat down on one of the lounging deck chairs, their shoulders bumping. Newt handed him the book, swallowing nervously. “Take a peek,” he said, suddenly shy.
Cautiously, Thomas lifted the cover ... and his mouth fell open.
Newt couldn’t take his eyes off Thomas, whose expression was awed as he drank in Newt’s sketches of people from all walks of life, in places all over the world. A cafe in Paris, a pub in London, canals in Amsterdam, a waterfall in the wilderness of America.
“What made you get into art?” Thomas asked softly.