Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eric

I can‘t believe my father has convinced us all to go through with this. ‘It‘ll be fun' he said, 'family bonding' he said. Family bonding my arse. All it’s going to end up being is Sheila and her geriatric boyfriend salivating over each other, my dad being a bellend, and my mother judging every other guest we come across with her cold eyes and abrasive remarks. The only potentially 'fun' thing about this shambolic mess of an ordeal will be getting shitfaced at the bar every night; I absolutely plan to ditch my horrible family the second I get the chance. I fear that my lot won’t even be the worst of it, though; from my understanding of the Crofts, they are so obscenely wealthy that they've actually breached the unspoken 'red line' at the far end of the rich-scale after having amassed more money than they know what to do with; more than they could ever spend.

All I’m going to say about them for the time being is this: Mrs Croft is functioning on some form of sedating medication at any given time of day and hardly knows what planet she’s on. In addition, I fear my father is going to try and jump Mr Croft at a point in the journey where 'the waves are being particularly feisty’ and he ‘accidentally’ gets knocked into him, and I’m not entirely certain any single member of the Croft family would object. So take that as you will.

***

I‘m the last to arrive at our agreed upon randevu point because somebody jumped off a building causing a road block on a major street so the driver had to go the long way and somehow it’s my fucking fault. I’ve spent a grand total of five minutes with these dysfunctional penises and I already want a big Jack Daniels, a joint, and to get my scrawny arse on the first train back to Brumley. On top of my family, I’ve also come to a startling revelation; I never thought I could dislike a group of people more than the aristocratic British, but some of these eccentric yanks may be even worse. I haven’t quite made up my mind about them yet; but then again, I’m not big on most of the people that fall within my family‘s tax bracket. What I do know, however, is that the prospect of going to a country full of them may not be my idea of a heavenly time.

The fact that we took a 5 hour train just to take a six day boat from Southampton to New York to then travel on another boat from New York to home is just enough to summon a tear to my eye and an ache to my head so I try not to think about it as I smile painfully and set out to board the Titanic.

***

“…unsinkable, absolutely unsinkable. 46 thousand 800 tonnes — and every luxury! And my, what an infeasible beauty she is. Truly a monumental feat of human engineering. Eric, isn’t she just awe-inspiring? Such majesty, such grace-”

“Yes, it’s really… great.” I interject at a completely unacceptable moment, forgoing manners in favour of making him shut the hell up before he pops a boner talking about the damn boat.

His visage contorts into an expression of bitter disappointment at my flaccid response, words disfiguring his physiognomy like concentrated acid droplets and singing his fragile ego while they’re at it; thus, Gerlad‘s perfect moment to swoop in and grease the baking tray is born.

“Well, I do say Arthur - may I call you Arthur? - she’s one unstoppable beast of a ship if I’ve ever seen one. To experience the Titanic with your wonderful Sheila, and our families, together, is an honour and a privilege unlike any other. Truly.”

“Oh Gerlad, stop it! Hahahaha~~” my sister suddenly expels in one breath, sporting an unnaturally high-pitched tone that’s bound to drive me mad. He hasn‘t even said anything yet and already she‘s putting on her little show for everybody to gawk at. The grand family performance has begun and I seem to be the only one who hasn‘t learned his lines, as per fucking usual.

“Please, Gerald, the pleasure is all mine. And you behave yourself, girl. We don’t want him returning you before he‘s even bought you now, do we?”

“Oh please, Ger-bear loves me too much to let me go. Don’t you, Ger-bear?”

“Of course schnookums.”

Actually bone chilling stuff.  Genuinely how will I survive without throwing myself overboard? Oh Lord, just take me now! Let the sea wash over me and my remains get beached on the shore in Exeter.  

Waiting to board the bleeding thing is bad enough; I’m dreading to think what the better part of this next week is going to look like. The Crofts don’t seem to be suffering the same splitting headache as me. Who knows what flavour of drug Mrs Croft is operating on but for the moment she seems incapable of anything other than smiling vacantly and lulling her head to the side to passively take in the surroundings. It’s like hanging around an 80 year old woman whose mental factualities are failing her. As expected, Mr Croft is getting on swimmingly with my father, and so is Gerald.

…At this point I’m just glad not to be sharing a room with anyone. I really need a safe space to hide from these people.

***

“What do you mean you’re over-booked? We specifically reserved FOUR rooms — understand? FOUR. Not three, FOUR. One, two, three-”

My mother is making a fool out of herself once again. She’d be absolutely terrifying if she wasn’t so embarrassingly tone deaf and borderline offensive, patronising the American as if he wasn’t ‘all there’.

“Ma‘am, I understand four as a quantity. But I’m afraid we simply do not have enough space to accommodate all of you in the manner that you are requesting. I‘m sorry, but I have already told you that one of our cabins has been made uninhabitable due to an unforeseen complication that took place inside it earlier today-”

“Oh believe me — I know! You’ve already enlightened us to the existence of this apparently mystical ‘complication’. But I don’t care what happened; you may do things differently where you’re from, but where I come from, people of your type are meant to fix any and all ‘complications‘ that may arise, and ensure the satisfaction of people of our type at all costs.“

Oh, and here comes Mr Croft with his strong hand planted tenderly but firmly on her shoulder, about to really make a difference with his obscene wealth and his manliness. I can see where Gerald gets it from. 

“Pardon me, Sybil. May I speak to the man? …Thank you; hello, sir, do you know who we are? We just so happen to be some extremely prosperous and influential people of business from the United Kingdom. We travelled all the way from a little town called Brumley and paid a pretty penny to take this journey, so I suggest you re-evaluate the unavailability of one of your cabins.”

I can almost hear the attendant‘s eye spasm in unbridled rage. Thank God he isn’t a chef, because I just know all of our food would come with an extra large helping of assorted body parts and unpleasant fluids in it. 

“I’m afraid there is nothing I can do. Really. And I insist you put that bribe away, sir, or I will have to call my manager and have you escorted off the boat… all I can do is assure you that any monetary losses will be repaid in full, and offer some additional compensation in the form of a coupon for two lobster dinners, valid from today to tomorrow evening. Believe me, you‘ll be the first people to know if another cabin becomes available. Please have a pleasant journey, and thank you for choosing to ride with the Titanic.”

Ever the classy woman that she is, my mother‘s face simply glazed over as she turned and walked away from him, cold as ice, subsequently signalling for the rest of the party to follow in her wake. The woman is irrefutable.

I’m glad the ordeal is over of course, however my desire to curl up on the floor and die (because surely getting bummed by Henry VIII in the deepest pits of hell would be less embarrassing) is not entirely diminished. I know I’m going to get the brunt of it, with me not being in a couple and thus a lonesome maverick, a vagabond, in their eyes.

I’d sooner eat shards of broken glass than sleep in my parents‘ room, because whatever wild things they aim to get up to with the Crofts is frankly none of my concern, and I’d probably just end up sleeping on the floor of the corridor to be safe. As for the Crofts themselves, well, being put into their room is out of the question. It would simply be too weird, even for them… and anyway, I‘m practically of lowly birth in their eyes (not to mention a major screw up too — God knows what horrendously fabricated stories my father tells them). They’d never dream of having me as a pretend son for 6 days. That just leaves Gerlad and Sheila… but, again, it would be absurd to place me with them. I don’t see how I can win here.

“Well… what shall we do? Somebody will have to squeeze into another room.”

Father is the one to take control, naturally, always eager to show off to the Crofts and likely feeling insecure about not speaking up to the attendant just now. 

“…Eric?” He continues, naturally, and my stomach drops. Just because I saw it coming doesn’t make it any less unpleasant.

“How about he come stay with us? I think I ought to get to know my brother in law, and Sheila wouldn’t mind, would you Sheila? I suppose you two are quite close — just from what I’ve heard, of course.”

Well. That was unexpected. Gerald was the last person I thought would willingly snap me up, and definitely not as fast as that. I was bracing myself for at least a little unpleasant tottering; being passed around like a hot potato before landing on some unlucky sod and them being forced to accept me out of politeness. 

“Well, if you’re sure, Gerald, I guess we could take him under our wings; like adopting a lost puppy from the pound... It’ll be fun! Like a sleepover! We used to love those when we were children, Eric and I.”

“Indeed. What do you say, puppy?”

“I don’t see why not. Thanks for inviting me, anyway; that sorts things out quite nicely.” I say to them, trying really hard not to let the mortification of being referred to as a four legged animal that licks its own arse show evident on my countenance.

“Brilliant. Let’s see ourselves to our rooms and recoup in - say - half an hour? Sybil, dear, tell that servant to take our things to 405.”

***

We make our way down to our cabin and I’m begrudgingly dragging my feet behind the pair as Sheila hangs off his arm, his head bent down to speak into her ear and making her giggle uncontrollably. It’s almost nauseating and I need a drink. I’m miserable about my private space being forcibly taken away from me, and the prospect of getting with women has been made significantly less attainable, although I figure that if I pull a different girl every night I can simply go back to her lodgings and never even have to think about sleeping with Gerald and Sheila. Just the thought of it sends shivers down my spine.

“We‘re going to have to call for a cot tonight, but that’s no bother. For now let’s just get freshened up and rejoin the group — with haste, dearest.” Apparently, at some point Gerald‘s mouth had started moving and words were coming out. The room isn’t glamorous, nor is it huge, but it’s what one would expect from a ship like the Titanic.

He must see me looking at him with a slightly bewildered expression and quickly clarifies with a cheeky little wink - “Sheila, not you.”

What a peculiar man.

I must admit, the two of us just standing around like a pair of melts is more than a little awkward, especially as I’m being practically assaulted by his critical gaze dragging all over my body. To start unpacking would be even worse though, considering neither of them have so much as touched their luggage, opting instead to abandon it haphazardly on the floor. The last thing I want is to abuse their hospitality by helping myself to their drawer space. So, I take a seat and pray to God that Sheila won’t be a moment longer in the washroom.

…Well, my plan is backfiring. If anything, placing myself on a lower rung on the GPE ladder to him has made me feel even more… vulnerable? Maybe vulnerable isn’t the right word, I’m not scared of the man for Christ’s sake, but there’s something deeply unpleasant about him just… staring. It feels like an eternity‘s been spent pinned beneath his scrutiny. I have to think of something to get out from under it.

“Well, I don’t see why we should both have to wait around here for my sister to come out. Maybe I should just go-”

“You know, I’ve just realised that the two of us have never been alone in the same room together. How curious.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true.“

Maybe this requires a more direct approach.

“…pardon me for asking, but why are you looking at me so intently? Have I grown a second head or what?”

“Oh, I do apologise; Sheila‘s always telling me that I have a horrible habit of staring at people who happen to pique my interest. It’s just that- the thing is-  Shila looks so much like her parents. But you… well, your likeness is so muted that it’s hardly even there at all. In all actuality, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody who looks quite like you, man or woman.”

Great. So now he’s basically calling me chopped.

“Right… I don’t really know how to respond to that. It’s definitely, um, original.”

“I don’t mean to perturbe you, old sport. I was just making a simple observation is all. Wait, be still for a minute,”

It’s not like I could move anyway, feeling like a deer in the headlights (or a cow in a tractor beam), so I just continue to keep still as this large man, larger than me even when standing side by side, leans over my frame and picks an eyelash off my cheek as if we were Edward Rochester and Jane Eyre.

We stay like that for a moment, eyes interlinked. A strange kind of energy diffuses out of our bodies and clings to the air around us, causing the atmosphere to sit heavy where it lies and thick where it slides over and caresses our every fiber. It definitely feels different, and a bit claustrophobic, but not entirely unwelcome; if I’m honest, it’s slightly exhilarating — and that’s what being young is all about right?

But before I can thoroughly grasp the moment and make something out of it, the energy is zapped out of the room by my sister opening the bathroom door and expelling it ferociously out of the metaphorical airlock. Suddenly, Gerald‘s presence is no longer tantalisingly intolerable but uncomfortably intolerable. Nothing but that familiar sour taste and moderate disregard for him or his well-being lingers, although it seems that a new, sweetly perfumed flower has been planted amidst the brambles.

***

It’s been an hour since the vessel departed and we said goodbye to England, and I already feel my sanity slipping like a penguin in an ice bath. Gerald keeps looking at me strangely at any available moment. I caught him catching glimpses when we were meant to be watching the land move away from us as we set sail (at which point my father troublingly mused “New York in only five days”, and my mother had to embarrassingly remind him that it’s “actually six days, dear.”). I saw him peeping over the top of an Encyclopedia when we were lounging around the library, and - most disturbingly - I saw him looking at me as Sheila gave him an enthusiastic kiss and a hug for whatever damned reason. The entire affair is making me uneasy, and I conclude that the only way to relieve the distress is to slip away from the group and get my arse on a bar stool. Shots ahoy.

***

It’s 1500 hours and I’ve just suffered both a noxious scare and sizable relief in the span of mere minutes — a true rollercoaster, if you will. Not only did I almost go into cardiac arrest when I was told that there indeed was no bar on the Titanic, but I also almost dropped to my knees right then and there when the man I was consulting assured me that alcohol was flowing freely in the first class lounge: a little haven suspended in the middle of an ocean-locked purgatory.

It’s comfortable, almost deplorably patrician, and I’m sure in the evening it’ll be ambient enough to suit my tastes quite well. What more could a man of my unfortunate disposition ask for?

…I’m safe, for now, but I know it’s only a matter of time until everyone else collectively mash their unicellular brains together and figure out where I am, at which point Gerlad will be sure to track down and continue violating me, like some kind of fucked-up posh version of Predator.

As I’m knocking back glasses of fine port like it’s nobody’s business (my father already payed for this anyway with that astronomically pricey ticket, I may as well make the most of it), I whip out the little scrap of paper that I pocketed from our brief escapade in the library. Gerlad sent it over to me; I wasn’t particularly engrossed in my book, mainly because the movement of the boat was making me feel queasy, so I was up for a bit of a distraction, even if it was from him. It reminded me of my days as a school boy, except this time I wouldn’t get whipped if I got caught passing the note.

Looking at it now, I’m trying to decipher whether he really does want a piece of this or if he’s just a fucking weirdo who’s so out of touch that he can’t even interact with another human being in a regular fashion, like an alien trying to blend in with mankind.

It reads as follows:

G: What are you reading?

E: Wordsworth - ‘The Prelude’

G: Is it any good?

E: It’s a bit shit. I’m at the part where he’s just had a traumatising experience with a mountain which represents his looming adulthood or loss of virginity… something like that.

G: May I see it?

…

“huge peak, black and huge?”  I wonder where I’ve seen one of those before [> \__ •]

E: I don’t know. There are no mountains here.

G: Hahahahah.

I want to lustily dip my oars into your lake-

Okay, maybe he didn’t say that last part. But the rest of it is totally legitimate, and I’m starting to fear that that horny bastard would’ve really said the last part if only we’d stayed in there a moment longer.

***

As I suspected, my fleeting peace was disturbed just as I was starting to enjoy myself and my afternoon booze up was promptly stopped, to be resumed tonight.

***

Oh, the agony. Family dinners feel like a root canal being performed on every tooth at once. All I yearn for in my pale heart is for the door of my birdcage to swing open and free me of these demons — of that pervert Gerald who keeps trying to play footsie with me under the table, of Sheila laughing at his every breath like a hinge that needs oiling and attempting incessantly to bicker with the both of us, of my mother behaving like a reptile with a God complex and my father having to keep his mouth constantly full in order not to confess his unassuaged feelings of lust for Lord Croft’s bank account. I don’t think the Lady, Gerald’s husk of a mother, has touched one crumb of food because she’s too heavily medicated to notice it’s even there. I alone am sitting with my nightmare blunt rotation.

I sit, antisocial, and drown them out with glasses of champagne. I humour Gerald by letting him graze my thigh with his masculine hand. I humour my sister by politely barking retorts right back at her when prompted — my flavour of badinage is forever her favourite because I care enough about her to make it worthwhile but I don’t care enough about the rest of the company to keep it polite. She likes best the good-natured bite that comes out when I’m drunk and my inhibitions dissipate.

The moment my social duties have been relieved, you best believe I’m on the hunt for a woman to instill feelings of goodness and pleasure within myself. It doesn’t take long. It never does; I’m not difficult to please, you see, I’m what they call a harlot. I get plastered on the regular and then drop to my knees for anyone who wants it bad enough, men and women alike. Tonight, however, my target is different; biblically alluring, she’s a slight woman with big brown doe-like eyes and soft brown hair, and a face like a fawn turned girl; the epitome of feminine beauty. She’s enchanting, and for the first time in my life I didn’t simply want to go to bed with her, to eat her alive like Gerald might’ve; I just want to know her, more than anything. I feel myself gravitating towards where she is, curled up in the corner, like her soul is addressing my soul, a movement defiant of my own will.

“May I help you?” She says suddenly, gaze snapping up from her book (a diary?). Her eyes search over me, inquisitive, but hardly suspicious or weary.

She’s soft spoken but clear in her delivery. One could almost describe it as half-shy, half-assertive.

“I do apologize for bothering you, but I couldn’t help but be drawn over. I’ve never seen a girl like you before — what is your name?” I tell her with raw, unadulterated honesty, as I feel she’s a girl who appreciates that.

She responds without apprehension. “My name is Eva Smith. And who are you?”

“Eric, Birling. You may have heard of my father’s company, Birling & Co. He manufactures shit. Please, may I sit down? …No need to look so worried, I don’t bite. I just want to talk. I find good company to be rare in a place like this, but something tells me I’ll find it in you.”

The girl - presumably one Eva Smith - glances around the room as if searching for a particular face before permitting me to sit by her. Maybe she’s also here with some fuckwit she’d rather stay well clear of.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here? About the Titanic, I mean.”

A fairly standard question on my part, just to get the ball rolling.

“…I am going to America, as we all are. That is all.”

I know better than to press her for details at this point in time. This girl clearly holds an air of mystery to herself… but, ultimately, her business is her own and I have no right to pry. Her destination doesn’t matter anyway, it’s the here and now that counts. 

“Can’t argue with that I suppose. It’s very true. Personally I’m here with my family; parents, sister, sister’s fiancée, his parents, the whole shebang. Mad as a box of frogs, the lot of them. Frankly, I'm glad to be catching a break.”

She smiles at that; a golden, warm smile that lifts her entire visage and carries the weight of the world in joy. The phrase ‘she doth teach the torches to burn bright’ could not be more apt.

“I know how you feel. I too am travelling with somebody I’m much too glad to have gotten away from. You see, he’s an American gentleman, and the cultural differences are grating, to say the least.”

For the first time, I’m able to study her face up close, and under the ambient lighting of the first class lounge I detect for the first time a look of strange sadness in her brown eyes, the kind that comes with a lifetime of pain. Her young face is marred by experience, making it appear both bright and girlish, and tired and mature. It’s fascinating, and from my experience, telltale signs of a working class individual. She may be all dolled up to fit in with the toffs round here, but I’ve been around enough to know what differentiates us. It only makes me want to explore her all the more.

“Tell me about it. Honestly, these yanks are exhausting me and I’ve hardly met any yet - I’m dreading to think what an entire continent of them is going to be like.”

“Oh, please don’t make me think about it!”

We go on like that for a while, bouncing off each other organically. It’s harmonious, fresh, and funny may I add, even if it isn’t meant to last. She’s wonderfully witty and smart. In my experience, these kinds of connections are always the most succulently ardent, but desperately fleeting, and I’ll be sure never to forget her for as long as I live.

The night comes to a close when her eyes shift just over my shoulder and her face drops, clearly spying another passenger, the one she’s taking this journey with. I am cued to leave, and we bid each other goodnight in a pleasant, familiar fashion, as if old friends.

“Before you go, I’d just like you to know that I will be in cabin 505 tomorrow evening. Feel free to drop by. I simply can’t get enough of conversing with you.”

“Neither can I; Eva, I’ll be there. Goodnight.”

***

The high of just making a new friend is rapidly extinguished when I remember where I’m actually going — to spend the night with Gerald and my sister. I’d already strayed from my plan of sleeping with a new girl each night to avoid them, choosing instead to make a meaningful connection for the first time in my Goddamn life.

I can’t walk straight after a long evening of drinking, and upon entering the room I trip over a floorboard and (a classic example of my luck). I fall straight onto Gerald’s lap, who just so happens to be doing some light reading before bed. Since when did he need reading glasses? Wrinkly old man!

“Oh? Missed me?”

“Oh God, I’m sorry-”

“No, no, don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing. You’re so light, it’s as if a fea stumbled atop of me rather than a man. How much do you weigh? And how tall are you? Do you know of any decent divorce lawyers? Where do you live, exactly? Which side of the bed do you sleep on? What’s your favourite position??”

…is what he wants to say. But instead it comes out like this:

“It’s quite alright, mistakes happen. I’m just concerned about how drunk you are — you should really get some water down you and retire. How ‘bout you sleep in the normal bed tonight rather than the foldable kiddy one? You need a good night’s sleep, Eric.”

By this point I’m standing over him and just about ready to collapse, hardly fit to be defending myself from whatever the hell this proposition is.

“No, thank you, I wouldn’t want to force you or Sheila out of the bed.”

“Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. She does love you a lot, you know.”

“Please, I insist you two have a restful night. Less than adequate conditions are nothing I’m not used to. Goodnight.”

And with that, I flop to the shitty cot and immediately pass out.

***

The damn useless piece of metal and wafer thin mattress has just collapsed and jolted me awake with it. I’m disorientated and immensely taken aback, heart palpitating in shock. Gerald seems to be stirring to — God please just take me now.

“Eric? Are you alright? What happened?”

“The bed has collapsed.” I grumble, already slipping back into a state of blackout.

For a few blessed moments, silence, and I finally breathe thinking he’ll shut his handsome mouth the fuck up for once and let me alone. This, of course, is nothing but a fantasy.

“Come up here.”

“You are going to wake Sheila if you don’t stop talking to me. Go back to sleep.”

“Sheila isn’t here.”

My heart stops, then starts again, beating with twice the fervour as before.

“What? Where is she?”

“She made a new girl friend this evening and is with her right now. You know how she takes to people, our little social butterfly. She came by to tell me, but you had already fallen asleep; don’t worry, I conversed with the girl a bunch and can safely say she has a good, rich character. No funny business.”

Yeah, because I was really worried.

The dilemma has spread itself wide open, and I’m faced with a decision that I’m in no state to make: commit to it entirely and join Gerald and his wandering hands in the safe, cozy, luxurious bed, or rot on the ground with my soul and my dignity still intact. The decision is surprisingly easy. I've never been one to take the high road.

I get up, deciding to actually ready myself first seeing as I was already feeling bright eyed and awake after my loud and physically jarring jumpscare. I go into the bathroom, change, wash my face… brush my teeth… gosh this part really is boring, isn’t it?

***

“Fine. Let me in.”

With that, the duvet flies open and welcomes me into its waiting maw. Men come here to be digested in a vat of acid composed of their deepest desires, where they have too much fun to care at the time and are spat back out in the morning half the person they were before.

It starts out heavenly, a soft duvet and pillow to lull me into a state of mind not unlike that of a Hindu cow, total comfort and serenity, until the gossamer tentacles of desire start finding their way to my core, tentatively throwing a branch or two into the furnace of the heart. A sigh, a shift, and he’s facing me, arm travelling like a marine on a stealth mission through the murky waters of fabric all the way to my bare arm, which he now clings too. He makes his way down to my wrist soon after, wraps around it, touches forefinger to thumb. My hand is next.

I don’t know why I like it, but I do. I feel like a pubescent boy all over again, recalling my first shame-coloured tryst with a boy I went to school with. It’s almost exhilarating, wondering what he’s going to do next and knowing I won’t stop him.

I exhale shakily as his fingers dance over my palm and with one slight jump clasp onto my waist. He holds it there, heavily impregnating the pause between squeezing my side and pulling me close, letting a soft, breathy laugh escape into the room as he does so. The moment is intimate; I’ve sobered up enough to feel it, but I’m still drunk enough to let it happen. Being held in the arms of another is a pleasure I find intrinsically irresistible.

Now he’s making his way up my rib cage, counting the nooks. It’s pleasant and somewhat soporific. When he moves on, I mourn the loss of touch for one fleeting moment before shivering at the sensation of his muscular arm wrapping around me and his hand caressing my spine at length.  I can’t help but release a choked sound which opens the floodgates for an onslaught of word salad — thoughts I’d rather not vocalise but come gasping out nonetheless.

“Don’t stop.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“Please — promise you won’t stop until you’ve felt every molecule of me there is to feel.”

“That’s all I ever wanted to hear.” The crisp picture of a smile is practically sent to and reconstructed in my mind via the sound waves.

With my blessing (because apparantly my fuckass mouth is totally betraying us), he delves lower, first greedily cupping the back of a knee before teasingly traipsing the leg at a deplorable pace.

“Stop edging me Gerald.”

“You’re no fun.”

Finally, he reaches the seam between thigh and torso, and I finally think ‘this is it’: he’s gonna delve into my garden of STIs. But alas, he stops, and my quivering thigh trembles beneath the touch of his almost lampoonishly virile hand. I feel like a girl next to him, inexperienced and eager to be with an older man. Gerald will surely be my undoing. How can my body be this desperate already?

“Well? What are you waiting for?” I manage to produce, although not without betraying my rampant carnal desire.

Silence.

“Gerald?”

Shallow, fast breaths tumble into my unkempt hair. Oh God. Did he really just….?

To test my hypothesis, I whisper, absurdly,

“I think your mother should join us in bed next time.”

No response. Great. He fell asleep caressing me to the brink of unbridled madness. While I was getting all hot and bothered like some bitch in heat, this motherfucker was soothing himself into the land of nod; honestly, old men! They couldn't stay awake if their damn eyes were being propped open by toothpicks and they had a pretty young thing in their bed to play with as they saw fit…

I’m disappointed, sure, but it’s way too late for this shit and I’m too tired to even relieve myself, so I cozy up to Gerald (even thinking about it makes me wince) and fall asleep with my head against his safe, solid chest.

***

Day two starts with me waking up to an empty bed and a half-dressed Gerald bitching about us being late to breakfast. Thank fuck I don’t get hangovers anymore, because I can hardly stand him or the family as I am — bowling around a boat with a killer headache may’ve just been my last straw.

“Come on now, Eric; your father may have the manners of a barnyard animal, but I’m telling you now that being half an hour late to breakfast is inexcusable.”

Ooookaaaay. Who died and made me his disciple? Does he really think that just because we shared an intimate moment together he’s officially gained universal rights to me and my ‘chronically untrained’ mind? That I’m going to hang off his every word, and no less than beg for him to share his culture and worldliness to me as I follow him around wagging my little tail? Absolutely not.

“Alright, I’m getting up.”

…Sometimes it’s better not to fight these things, though. I’ve learnt that much hanging around my parents. The woman they call my mother is psychopathic, and my father, like Gerald, is a prime example of a fucking MAN. I may be one myself (although even that’s a debatable topic if you ask daddy; cheers, sperm donor), but damn do I feel the testosterone truly radiating off of them sometimes.

Soon enough, we’re on the move. He’s cool, distant, not wishing to draw attention to us as he saunters across the boat like a peacock. He’s standing tall and elegant as ever, and he’s got that air of unwavering sophistication and prestige about him that puts you in your place without even trying — stop, what am I actually saying. This is garbage. I don’t care how minted he is, or about the fact that he smells so good I want to huff his scent like aureolin paint. I’m a simple man with simple needs; grilled lamb and baked apples.

***

Breakfast was a bust. Before familial interaction got to her, Sheila was her usual, chipper self, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after a riveting night of girly gossip and comparing cup sizes — or whatever the fuck she was even doing there. My parents were clearly behaving frostier than usual toward each other, although to a blind layman they’d have seemed fine. The ‘why’ behind their sudden quarrel is still enigmatic, but for my own sanity I’d rather not know.

No one was in the mood for conversation, which would’ve been just fine by me — if they had all followed their hearts and shut the fuck up rather than opt to talk just for the sake of it and thus subject the table to a plume of toxic smoke. Sheila, ever changeable, was quick to succumb to Gerald‘s muted rage baiting.

Anyhow, we met a man today, a solo traveller. The entire experience was positively bizarre, but the way he spoke to my father — not a single man on Earth has ever spoken to him like that, it was elating, refreshing, a goddamn inspiration. I’ve never felt so simultaneously amused and frightened before.

We were all at the Turkish Baths, in the steam chamber, (as one is), when a rather bold fellow took his seat adjacent to us and, upon falling earwitness to some of my father’s awful misogyny, classism, and embarrassingly fallacious pearls of wisdom, started pointedly side-eyeing us with fury and disgust so palpable I could feel it on my skin. This, I could tell, was merely a controlled trickle stemming from the molten pool circulating beneath his cool exterior. In all honesty, his air of unimpeachable dominance was intimidating as much as it was admirable, and the magnitudinal shadow being cast by his moral superiority and monster cock had plunged us into an umbral darkness. I felt like a blind and lobotomised kitten laughing in the face of death, but how could I not? He was right to disrespect us, it’s what we deserved.

My corpulent father, the damn fool he is, looked at him incredulously (when he finally pulled his head out of his arse enough to notice him, that is), and grunted out stiffly, “Can I help you, sir?”

“I don’t like the way you run your mouth.”

“…Excuse me? As a hard-headed practical man of business, I refuse to sit here and take this abuse. Eric, do you think I got anywhere lounging around looking fascinating and taking it like a good boy from every man who put me in my place? Of course not. Honour and pride come first in this world-”

Why are you dragging me into this now?? 

Instantly, the man swoops in to take the heat off of me and drag my father back to the *real* matter at hand; “Please be quiet. Sorry, Freudian Slip. What I meant to say is that I couldn’t help but overhear a few of your laughably outdated ideas, and was wondering if you could be so kind as to reconsider all of them.”

“I don’t know what makes you think you can speak to me in such an impertinent manner, but it’s clear to me now that you’re simply uneducated and I find it distasteful to argue with imbeciles and cranks. You can’t help being crazy.”

“I can assure you, sir, that I am of perfectly sound mind, and I can back that claim up by admitting that I have indeed been quite rude to you. I apologise. But you must know that if we as a society do not learn to put our differences aside and settle all disputes on the dance floor rather than the battlefield, then we will learn our lesson in fire and blood and anguish.”

“What the devil are you talking about, man? The Germans don’t want war!  Now stop filling these young children‘s minds with rubbish and let us be. We were having quite the stellar time before you stuck your snout into our business.

“There was no other way. You people have to learn.”

“You know, we just played some rather exhilarating games of squash before this, too. This was meant to be our down-time to recover.”

“I don’t play squash.”

At this point, I can’t help but snicker wildly, only to instantly regret it as the Interrogator's hard, accusatory, and absolutely authoritative gaze snaps to me and I practically squeak in my seat.

At once, they both jump on me like mountain lions:

“What part of this is funny to you, you unemployed bastard?” flying like a bomba into my left ear, deployed straight from the fungus-gnat infested chest cavity of my father, and “I‘m not joking, boy, I‘ve never cared for the game.” coming at my right ear like shards of ice from my newfound father figure, the Interrogator.

“Okay, guess I’ll die then.”

“Oh Eric, you’re SO over-dramatic. And they say I‘M the only Birling sibling with a uterus!”

“Good one, Sheila!” Gerald chimes in, apparently, although all he achieves by doing this is shaking salt into the gaping laceration across my fragile masculinity.

“Stay out of it, Gerald. This is between Arthur and… sorry, what was your name?” Interjects Sir Croft, telling off his thirty year old son, for some reason, and thankfully taking the spotlight off of me.

“Goole. GdoubleOL. I’m an inspector.”

“An inspector? With a first class ticket? How in Jove’s name did you afford that?” Begins my father again, not missing the opportunity to jump back into the ring.

“Respectfully, I fail to see how that is of your concern.”

He’s an enigma. Not physically large in stature, but he takes the whole room in his hands and shapes it to his will like plasticine; you yearn for mercy but you don’t deserve it, he’s aggressively fair and just. Calm, composed, and in control, his voice never raises by a decibel, but his tone and his eyes betray more ill feeling than gristly spitting and shouting ever could. Even the sweat beading on his brow is unperturbed, cascading with nonchalance and uniformity down his face when the time is right. His moustache is perfectly trimmed, and he appears to be in peak physical condition too. An extraordinary fellow. How absurd is it to be arguing with him half-naked in the steam room? 

And then, it happens almost in slow motion. The inspector’s eyes turn to me, switch off, play dead, and he states with unwavering clarity:

“You absolutely reek of alcohol. Have you come here to sweat out a week-long bender, because by God son, I can feel myself getting tipsy just sitting next to you.”

Oh.

Everybody instantly quiets down and just kind of sits there, looking to each other desperately but not even knowing what they’re searching for. The inspector’s honesty has stunned us all into submission. He won the moment he touched the one thing nobody in this family will ever touch: a real, honest to God problem. A problem that I’m drowning in as Sheila watches on from the shore; my parent’s heads are buried in the sand.

We excuse ourselves shortly after that and my mother takes me aside, practically gnawing on my ear about my smelling like I had bathed in a barrel of whisky. I admit, it isn’t my finest moment.

***

I’m hiding in the bathroom after taking a reflective shower, marinating within the ‘mortification’ quarters of my mind palace and partaking in some borderline masochistic meditation. Oh, why must the human mind be so predisposed to rumination?

***

“How’s my little prince?”

“Oh just jog on, Gerald.”

One foot into the bedroom and already I have to deal with this crap. No thank you.

“Youch. You’re always so cold to me Eric, prickly, prickly like a garden of the finest and reddest of roses—”

“How Sheila can stand to live with you is beyond comprehension.”

“Let’s throw ourselves off the top deck, my love. Sod the rest of them.”

He snaps up my waist, pulls me closer.

“You’re an insufferable romantic.” I’m trying to seem thoroughly unimpressed by his attention seeking behaviour, but fondness nonetheless smuggles itself into my mouth and comes snaking out by the corners.

“You’re all wet.”

“I just stepped out of the shower, pervert.”

He tucks his thumb beneath the seam where the towel meets my hip and gives it a half-serious, half-playful tug downwards.

“Gerald.” I place a hand on his wrist and let it sit there, non committedly. It’s a loose warning; were he to continue, I would let him.

“Please? Just let me just slip this towel off you.”

“We have to get ready for dinner.”

I look up at him, firmly, and he retracts his hand; actually taking me seriously for once in his damn life.

“As you wish.”

***

Dinner‘s long gone, and I’m stumbling down the corridor to Eva Smith‘s room with a ¼ empty bottle of liquor I bribed a member of staff to give me under false pretenses. My headspace is already starting to go fuzzy like a mouldy peach, but I fear I couldn’t stop now if I tried. She’s not a big drinker and I know it, but as I was bargaining (pleading pathetically) for that bottle, my sick mind had temporarily convinced me the majority of it was for her, a present. I’m deluded.

She opens the door for me before I can even register I’ve knocked, and there she is, Eva, so cute, so charming, with her big brown eyes and soft brown hair.

“Eva.” My grin is so stupid and wide it’s probably falling off my face. She’s glad to see me too, smiling demurely, irises sparkling, but her eyebrows furrow slightly in warranted concern/mild confusion.

“Eric! Are you quite alright?” I can practically hear her eyes pointing at the object in my possession but choose to actively ignore it.

“Better than ever. Just felt like taking you up on your invitation to come by and say hello. So, hello.”

“Right, yes, of course.”

Insert prolonged silence.

“So, are you going to let me in or what? I may not be a vampire (debatably), so, physically speaking, I could just let myself in, seeing as I’m not bound to vampire physics, but I’m sure you can see why barging into girl‘s rooms uninvited doesn’t quite tickle my fancy.” I word-vomit, everywhere, i think a vowel even gets on her shoes, and all I can think while this string of alphabet soup comes pouring out of my facial asshole like Niagara Falls is ‘what the actual FUCK am I even saying‘.

“…Well, okay then! Seriously, Eric, dear, I think you need to come and have a bit of a sit down.”

“So can I come in?”

“Yes, you may, now please stop otherwise I really will start thinking you’re a vampire.”

So, I walk in, we get to talking, I drink some more (after she politely declines the alcohol and suggests I do the same), and eventually we circle round to the topic of Eva Smith herself. I’m apparently dying to know more about her companion.

Once again, she’s skirting around the subject like she’s going to get murked by the secret service if she talks.

“Oh, it’s of little importance who I’m with, Eric. It’s trivial.”

“If it’s so trivial, then just tell me about it, about him, about yourself. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

“Well… what exactly would you like to know?”

Prolonging the inevitable. 

“Well, who really are you? What do you do for a living? Or for fun? What are you planning on doing in ‘The New World’, as they like to call it?”

She looks at me, eyes betraying everything — reluctance, shame, fear (of what? Of how I’ll react, or the potential consequences of telling me?), but nevertheless there’s that fire in them to be honest. I want to chase the flame, eager and ravenous like an animal for just a morsel of the truth.

“Alright. I haven’t told anybody this, but I feel I can trust you… hopefully this won’t be a mistake,”

She pauses before containing, sipping a little of my liquid courage to give her the strength to go on.

“My name is Eva Smith, which you know. This past year I’ve gotten myself into a lot of trouble. I lost my job at the factory, and then at this delightful department store in Brumley, where I’m from, and I found myself in a terribly difficult position. You may be wondering to yourself now, why on Earth I’m travelling first class on the Titanic, if I have no money and indeed no family to support me. It‘s because the American gentleman I’m travelling with has paid for my ticket. He discovered me at the bar where I was selling myself — a ‘lady of the night’, so to speak. He told me he‘d take me back to America, that I could work for him there… that he‘d Kopf after me and I‘d be around his other women doing the same thing. He saw potential in me. God, I‘m so ashamed, but how could I turn him down? There was no life for me in England, I… I had to do all I could to survive.”

I pause before replying, giving the information time to soak into my currently less than efficient brain.

“Oh my, I wasn’t expecting that. I presumed you weren’t exactly a born and bred aristocrat, but this… all I can say is that I‘m sorry, Eva. I‘m sorry society has failed you. I'm sorry that people like my father, so called ‘hard headed practical men of business’ have failed you. But I don’t blame you for a second for choosing to go to the States, and I hope that one day you make enough to get yourself off the streets.”

She looks at me, after all that, as if I had said something profoundly beautiful; like it‘s the first time in her life she‘s ever been truly seen and heard and understood by another human being.

“Thank you.”

Her entire countenance is brimming with gratitude.

***

The rest of the night goes by a blur and I don’t comprehend a minute of it; all I‘m vaguely conscious of is that I end up crawling into her bed and digging my roots into the mattress until morning.

Chapter Text

Gerald

It’s day three of this cruise malarkey, and something quite unexpected appears to be happening. I’ve found myself in the throes of blazing carnal desire for none other than one Eric Birling. As with many men, the idea of having an affair has always exhilarated me, and, ashamed as I may be, he was simply too cute to pass up; I knew the moment we made eye contact across the table of Sheila and I‘s engagement dinner that something devious was brewing. The way he stared at me, for example, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was, obviously overcome by my striking masculine allure, was clearly indicative of his undying lust for me, and, honestly, I can’t blame the boy either. The Birlings just cannot get enough of me.

Last night, however, the room was miserably devoid of his presence. I missed him more than I thought I would; I’m becoming attached awfully quickly, so much so that I could hardly bear being big spoon to that vivacious & curvaceous sister of his. I almost couldn’t contain my excitement at seeing him on the top deck after breakfast, looking restless and as pale as a sheet. He appears to me almost as an apparition, particularly when we’re in the smoking room and the chemical wisps shroud his face from view, licking his jaw like ghoulish kittens‘ tongues. How I yearn to be a cigarette burning between those intoxicating lips of his, slowly being reduced to nothing but ash, falling into a pile by his feet... I wouldn’t mind that death at all.

Of course, this journey is not solely one of burning passion and sly deceit. I, being a man of responsibility, have taken it upon myself to bond with Sheila‘s grating parents. Her father, despite his frankly remarkable business acumen, is, for lack of a better descriptor, a few cards short of a deck in all other aspects of life. When the Inspector clocked him yesterday, I’m fairly certain everybody was laughing at the fool. That being said, though, he isn’t a bad man, not really. Part of being a man of the upper-class is simply having to put up with fellow men of the upper-class‘ abhorrent idiosyncrasies for the sake of maintaining status and connections.

Fortunately for me, the object of my newfound intense feeling and I were allowed some precious time alone together earlier this afternoon. Sheila was spending some quality time with her dear creators; I’m sure Mr Birling had quite a bit to say in regards to her upcoming transition from ‘girl to womanhood’ following our marriage, or something equally as dull and uncomfortable. I’m unsure of where the rest of the Crofts were, or what they were up to, and it‘s of absolutely no relevance to me either way. I was just elated to get Eric all to myself again.

The second the door shut behind us, I pounced, physically incapable of any more restraint. I littered him with affectionate kisses as he talked at me. Something about his aura suggested he was feeling rather tense; I wanted to, you know, put him at ease.

“Gerald, I thought you said you wanted to get to know me, but all we’ve done thus far is sneak around and be blasphemous,”

“I am getting to know you. I’m a kinaesthetic learner.”

I nuzzled against his throat and inhaled his scent — oh, how I have grown to crave it — musk and ethanol infused with a cologne so cheap that my otherwise learned nose couldn’t even begin to identify it. This reminds me… when we reach the shore, I simply must spoil him with the finest gifts. For such a poor man to come from such an affluent family, is really beyond a shame.

“And I’m a visual one. But that hardly matters right now. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

“Alright,” I almost grumbled like a sulking child, oh, how this strange little man has possessed my being, my very mortal soul! “I’m often much too busy at the works, of course, but, I suppose when I have some down-time, I quite like to paint.”

The look that crossed over his face was priceless. If I could just capture that very moment of perfection, of boyish charm and unadulterated joyful surprise that came over his countenance, I’d frame it in solid gold and hang it centrally above my bed.

“…Can you paint me?” He proposed, cautious, but clearly enthusiastic about the idea.

“Yes.” I had never been so quick to answer. My fingers ardently burned to pick up a brush and trap him inside of a canvas forever. My only reservation was that no volume of expensive oil paints and artisan paper in the universe could ever capture Eric Birling in quite the way I saw him.

At once, I went to get my supplies. “Luckily, I took a few light things with me. I wanted to use all this free time to unwind, and, I don’t know, I suppose I was planning on painting the ocean. The only hues I brought are blue.”

“I don’t care. How do you want me?”

My mind raced thinking of all the wild, indecent ways I could have him pose for the portrait. That insatiable hunger in me groaned at the thought of being sensible, but I knew I had to reign myself in.

“You don’t have to take on any elaborate stance. Just lean back on the wall,”

He obeyed, crossing his arms as he did so. I figured I had to keep him smiling as I was doing the face, but the only way I wanted to attain that was genuinely.

“Paint me like one of your landscapes, Gerald.” He purred melodramatically. The boy apparently was already starting to amuse himself, just as I was applying the base colour to the canvas.

When the timing was right, however, I subtly kicked my plan into full swing.

“…I do also quite like to play golf, you know. It’s one of the few leisure acts I participate in on a regular basis, although the games I attend are more for networking purposes than for my own enjoyment.”

He smiled mildly and rolled his eyes. I suppose golf isn’t that outlandish of an activity for a gentleman such as myself to indulge in.

“But, I’m also quite the reader.”

That captured his attention finely. The boy was reminiscent of a magpie spying a scrap of metal on a riverbank, illuminated by the light of the pale silver moon.

“Really? What’s your favourite book?”

“Well, I’m quite enjoying ‘The Street Called Straight’ by Basil King at the moment, have you heard of it? It’s rather popular this year.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it; the drama about the scandalous American who embezzled all of his client’s money, right? I wasn't really expecting something like that to be up your alley, but I suppose in hindsight it makes sense.” He seemed unreasonably entertained by my answer. I didn’t know whether to be pleased that my humble plan was actually working, or to be hurt by his perpetuated incredulousness at my being a real person with likes and interests.

“Do you like any classics?” He went on.

“Well, they aren't exactly novels, but I’m rather fond of Shakespeare‘s plays… ‘Hamlet’ would have to be my favourite, although ‘Twelfth Night’ and ‘Macbeth’ are close seconds.”

“Huh. I was never really into his plays, they’re a bit too before my time. That being said, the oldest book I’ve ever read is ‘Dante’s Inferno’, and I liked it. But normally I’m only interested in more modern texts. I recently read ‘Anna Karenina’, for example, and honestly, I found it brilliant.” He mused, looking thoughtfully to the side rather than at me, camping within his thoughts. I didn’t mind one bit; that expression of genuine contented interest I managed to jot down was priceless.

“You like a spot of reading as well, I’ve gathered?” I mildly teased him with nothing but endearment in my voice.

“Well, yeah, I guess. I don’t do it as often as I used to. Perhaps I should start doing that again… it’s just difficult to see the letters when your vision keeps going fuzzy.” His tone suggested he was joking.

I ran my brush down the canvas to form that smooth, edible neck and its slopes that run down into those equally kissable shoulders. He had so many clothes in the way, I almost wept at the fact that I couldn’t capture his form in its entirety. Nonetheless, I made do, and ploughed on in silence for some time.

That was until Eric interrupted me to whine petulantly.  “How much longer is this going to take, Picasso?”

“As long as it takes, my little mustard-seed.”

Eric winced at the pet-name.

“You’re really getting creative with these names now, aren’t you. What’s wrong with ‘good fellow’ or ‘mate’?”

He was purposefully rage-baiting me now; I didn’t fall for it, of course, but indeed two can play at that game. Little did I know, my harmless, playful rebuttal would have some rather unexpected — albeit enthusiastically welcomed — consequences.

“But my little combine harvester, the only sense in which you are my ‘mate’ is that you are an animal with whom I wish to breed. I refuse to call you by such a platonic name.”

“Alright Gerlad, mate with me then.”

I chuckled and shook my head, of course under the assumption that we were still engaged in lighthearted banter. I refused to allow myself to take his words at face value, the mere postulation was inconceivable to me, and yet, when I reared my head from behind the canvas, I saw the seriousness plastered across his face. An honest proposition had slipped out from between those lips.

“Oh Eric, you dog, I cannot abandon my painting now,” I begin, as innocent as a lamb, silently revelling in making him wait, “Please let me finish this first. Everything else can come later.”

He certainly wasn’t pleased, and to be honest, my patience too was wearing pretty thin. Even still, I, the true artist that I am, persevered, and soon enough my magnum opus was entirely finished.

“Eric, my dear, I am done.”

He practically ran over to look at it. His reaction did wonders for my pride.

“Gerald, it’s wonderful. Seriously. If Sheila ever finds out about us, paint her picture and she’ll be back in your arms in a heartbeat. Now come over here, you artistically inclined bastard.”

Now, a gentleman such as myself isn’t one to kiss and tell, but I will say this: Nextdoor did indeed shout abuse at us to keep the noise down from the other side of the wall.

***

Soon enough, evening threw her sunset coloured arms around the world, painting the sky in romantic blends of pink and orange. As I lay in bed now, reminiscing about the day gone, my mind cannot help taking me back to this evening thanks to the most bizarre but wonderful interaction I experienced.

I was alone, in the first-class lounge, when I noticed a girl who looked quite different to the rest of the stuck-up old hags draping themselves across the plush furniture there. There was something familiar about her I couldn’t quite place, something about her soft brown hair and large brown eyes that called to me from across the room. I simply knew I had to speak to her, if only briefly, if only to learn her name and nothing more.

“Excuse me, madam, but I fear you’ve bewitched me, I couldn’t help but start gravitating towards you… there’s something oddly familiar about your face. Have we met before?”

She looked mildly surprised at being greeted, perhaps even a tad frightened, if her paled complexion and bewildered eyes were anything to go by, although it’s to be expected of a woman when a strange (albeit dashing) man suddenly startles her from her reading. Women are fragile creatures, you know; easily spooked, like a deer — and that was when I realised who she reminded me of. That deer-in-the-headlights look, those pretty, unique features, she looked like a distantly female Eric Birling. She looked like his cousin.

Before I could ask for her name, however, she spoke: “Funnily enough, a man said something similar to me the other night. Perhaps you know him? His name is Eric, Eric Birling.”

I froze. Okay, she’s definitely not his cousin then, considering he was hitting on her.

“Yes, actually, I do know him. I’m engaged to marry his sister. Our families are travelling together.”

Her face visibly relaxes before a capricious cloud is cast over it and she looks rather displeased to see me, her jaw clenching.

“Right, yeah, I’ve heard all about Eric’s family. I’d rather have nothing to do with any of you lot, if you don’t mind.” She said, her tone harsh despite her soft, kind eyes, which at that moment refused to make contact with my own.

It was unexpected, of course, but I wasn’t one to purposefully upset women and pry beyond her boundaries, so I bid her farewell and left.

Tonight, I’m being cooked alive with Sheila pressed up against my left and Eric held close to my right side. We’re cooped up like sardines in a tin. I have to give it to her, Sheila’s compassion is admirable; she agreed that it would be cruel to make Eric sleep on one of those useless makeshift beds again. At one point I tried to sneak my hand down and grab his thigh under the covers, but my hand was slapped away instantly, which I begrudgingly understand considering the circumstances.

***

Dear reader, I am speaking to you now from beyond the grave. At exactly 2:20 AM on the 15th of April, 1912, day four of our waterborne journey to the New World, the unsinkable RMS Titanic sank into the North Atlantic Ocean.

The day was, of course, not unlike every other day on the ship; a day of pleasantries and politeness and sneaking kisses down the nape of my beloved’s neck when no mortal being was watching. A great portion of my time was of course dedicated to Sheila plus Mr & Mrs Birling, and although I admit that the girl is a hoot whom I do still love despite myself, her parents are decidedly not. Every moment I spent kissing-ass to Mr B was a moment I would’ve rather spent on my hands and knees in front of his son.

That night, I was once again granted my final wish, to have Eric all to myself, hidden from the eyes of everybody on that boat. Indeed nothing could hide us from the eyes of God though, for he saw the two of us breaking the law of his creation and smited us. He smited us all with his hot-tempered fist.

One last secluded meet-up in our room was all I could snatch from behind His back before he turned around and saw us with our trousers around our ankles. We conversed in hushed tones, it was so intimate, sitting close with our noses almost touching on the edge of the bed.

“Eric, why are you an alcoholic?” I don’t know why I said it, it just kind of came out. The atmosphere we’d fostered kind of massaged it out of me. I didn’t need to hear his answer, those big brown eyes said everything, yet, I wanted him to tell me in his own words, for him to know that I really wanted to get to know him now.

“…I don’t feel comfortable answering that question, Gerald. What were you even expecting me to say? That I hate myself?”

I paused, stalling on his behalf. I could see that he was desperate for the words to come tumbling out of him, like his confession was the first rain of the wet season, and I was the arid Saharan soil, ready to take it in.

“Well, yes.”

“Fine. Because I do. I’m a fuck up. Drinking is the only way I can feel better, but when I have too much it only makes me worse, so much worse, and I end up doing things I shouldn’t, hurting other people. My father looks at me and sees a bitch who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow and who isn’t fit to inherit the company, and my mother never showed me an ounce of love once in my miserable life. I’ve developed an emotional attachment to you but I still cheated on you two nights ago because I was drunk, with a woman who didn’t even want me in her bed. You’re meant to be marrying my sister but you’re fucking me instead. You’d be better off not associating yourself with the likes of me. I’m a disease. That’s what I think Gerald.”

“Would you like to know what I think Eric? I think your parents are insufferable, and I think you’re brilliant. I think you’re charming, pretty, clever, but you’re just so sad Eric, so poignantly despairing, in the way that all clever people are. And the fact you slept with somebody else is none of my concern. We’re both bad, bad cheaters. I don’t love you one bit less for it.”

We made love one last time after that, but barely an hour later, the Titanic and the iceberg made impact in one of history‘s most destructive kisses. She sank for around two hours; Mr and Mrs Birling were some of the lucky shits who clawed their way onto a lifeboat along with Sheila, who, despite her hysteria and her commitment to finding me and Eric first, they managed to save. My mother was suffering from an ill-timed overdose, however, so my distressed father and she didn’t quite make it.

As for Eric and I, well, we had a great deal of trouble navigating the chaos-plunged ship with no light, but we eventually managed to find the bow, which many people were already clinging to for dear life. There was little hope left for us, but the strangest thing of all was that I don’t truly believe either of us minded all that much.

One of the last images I remember seeing before being plunged into the abyss of icewater was a tall, large-eared man in a leather jacket clinging from the glacier, although whether or not that was a just product of my near-death brain I can’t be certain.

The water was so beautiful. It was an infallible extension of the inky black sky above, and bursting with scintillating little stars. I’m sure that’s where Eric went at the moment of his death; his atoms were re-absorbed into a star. I saw them reflected in his big brown eyes as he held on to me, saying nothing, but it was just as well. Nothing more needed to be said.

The Titanic crumbled into the ocean, and Eric, oh, my darling Eric, kissed me one last time as it did so. The last thing the boy ever drank was a fuck ton of ocean water and my final breath.

I think that when we perished, a remnant of us, a splinter from when when our souls collided like waves crashing against the shore was caught in the wind and carried all the way to mainland; the lone surviving artefact harbouring proof of our pyretic love affair, hiding like a child from the abusive embers of passion‘s fire in its own nautical treasure chest. Nothing beside remains.