8My Heart Will Go On, "Nearer, to Thee, My Lord".
Written because I made the sorry mistake of looking up the Hetalia/Titanic Doujin (Hetanic!) on Youtube, which was set to music. I'm a fan of that song anyways so it was a terrible, terrible combination.
This is NOT a parody of the film, it's just headcanon about what it would have been like for two of our favourite nations to be on board. It's also a 2-shot, but I haven't finished the second part yet and I'm a bit busy with my other commitments right now. I just figure, if I have this one finished, I might as well go ahead and upload it, right?
Southampton
It had been Alfred's first trip to London in nearly two hundred years. His first time staying in Arthur's city, visiting Arthur's house- a grand old residence in London Town, something to reflect his status in the world. It had been tense a lot of the time, and uncomfortable for more of it, but good. All in all, the United States of America was willing to admit that it was time for things to start getting better between himself and the British Empire. It had been a century since their last war, and fifty years since Alfred's civil war; it was time for things to improve.
And Arthur, as far as he could tell, wanted the same thing. Why else would his former brother have provided them both with first-class tickets on his new ship once the visit was over? They'd argued about it of course, not over whether or not Alfred would accept the ticket (dude, how could he not?), but things like whether the four-stacked behemoth was really taller than Alfred's tallest building- which was supposed to be taller than Arthur's tallest building, hence the arguing. Even after a tour of her insides Alfred refused to acknowledge that she was "Unsinkable", but it was more because of Arthur's constant crooning than any flaws in the engineering.
But damn if she wasn't beautiful. Alfred wasn't sure he even wanted her to make port in New York, she'd probably make all the other ocean liners feel shabby and second-rate. He'd have to build something better when he got home. Yes yes, something to top Arthur's mighty Queen.
They departed from Southampton, a town just a few miles south of London, and sailed across the channel to Cherbourg in northern France. Arthur was usually miserable to travel with, fastidious and snippy and peculiar about timing and etiquette, but he was quite animated when they stopped for passengers. From their perch up high on one of the gorgeous observation decks, the American and his British host looked down and saw one particular Frenchman waving up at them from the docks down below. Francis kept shouting at them from his little patch of earth, but there was no way for them to hear him and Alfred just laughed as Arthur made a great show of pretending he was trying to listen
"A little louder, Frog! What's that? Something wrong with the ticket you say?" An angry telegram written in complex French reached them that night as they made their way to one final European stop in Ireland. Alfred watched Arthur read it and chuckle cruelly in their shared cabin, the Empire finally explaining that instead of sending Francis a ticket, he'd given the French Republic a clever forgery that had nearly resulted in his arrest.
Alfred had to admit, he didn't mind Arthur's sneaky little laugh and sparkling eye when it was aimed at someone else. The way it made his lips curl and his face light up was charming, something he'd missed after an uncomfortable century and a half of isolation. Arthur also seemed to have his drinking under control too, refusing to touch a drop of sherry or brandy or anything more potent than seltzer water or tea in the ballroom. They danced with the beautiful women under the crystal lights and as the dinner parties carried on every evening, Arthur would stand with him on the sweeping staircases and point out who was who and what they did.
It was good business, these ships. For the luxury of enjoying one the rich from America and Britain swapped stories, ideas, and most importantly: money. Investments were explored, plans hatched, relationships established, and all sorts of good business and capitol decisions were made.
Arthur's sister wasn't waiting for them in Queenstown, but their stop in Ireland was also Arthur at his least pleasant. It reminded Alfred of all the reasons why he was glad that Arthur would be heading north to visit Matthew when they arrived in New York, not staying with him in America. He was still the British Empire, he was still an ass, he was still a huge pain to travel with, and there were still a lot of reasons why Alfred was hesitant to leap into any of those big trade deals or investment options. Europe was a crotchety old place, and England was one of the crotchetiest.
"You do realize that that isn't a word." See? Crotchety.
But it was... fun. Getting past Arthur's insistence on proper table manners (who seriously needed four different forks at dinner?), and forgiving his constant chastisement over Alfred's volume (but the dining room was loud! He could barely hear himself!), and just plain ignoring some of the other things ("What's with your eyebrows?" "S-Shut up!")... it was fun. It was really, really fun.
"I love you, man..."
"Alfred you're drunk." Yep! But it was fun, it was all really, reaaaally fun.
"S'good stuff!" And all the sherry and the brandy and the whatever he'd had was an excuse, three days after the European coast vanished, to throw his arms around someone he'd missed a hell of a lot more than he'd ever admit while sober. When he felt Arthur very carefully return the hug, it just made the younger nation feel misty-eyed and hang on a bit tighter around the Englishman's throat.
"What are you doing?" The Crotchety British Empire asked, but neither of them let go.
"Lovin' you!" He slurred back, grinning a grin he knew looked stupid, but Arthur couldn't see it and Alfred pushed his face against his former-brother-gonna-be-friends-again friend's neck. He still smelled like pipe-smoke and tea leaves, but he was still just a bit shorter than Alfred was, and that made it harder for Arthur to drag him back inside and away from the evening air that had encouraged him to drink so much so fast. It wasn't legal in his country for someone with his face to drink, so he'd taken advantage on Arthur's ship.
"Hush now, you're going to embarrass us both." The "hush now" was reinforced with a gentle hand on the back of his head, and Alfred didn't know whether to be upset that he was being treated like a little kid, or comforted by the warmth that made it okay to keep his face down where it was against Arthur's collar.
Arthur was shorter than him, but stronger- or at least misleadingly strong given what he looked like. The British Empire succeeded in dragging him all the way back to their cabin, and America's only regret was that when he was dropped back on his bed and felt Arthur's hands removing his clothes, those fingers stopped as soon he was down to his shirt and pants.
"I've really missed ya..." It was really wrong for him to think that way, but what could he do? The kiss on his forehead belonged to a child, but Alfred just closed his eyes in the dark and felt better.
"Get some rest, you git." Things were getting better... between them. "We're barely half-way there." But getting better...
So Arthur was crotchety and demanding, and finicky and proper, and condescending and presumptuous, and teasing and superior, and a hundred other things.
"Arthur."
Arthur was a lot of negative, annoying, frustrating things.
"Arthur wake up."
He was the British Empire for god's sake.
"Arthur please, just get in the boat."
But that didn't mean Alfred wanted him to die.
"Women and children first! First-class men next!"
"Arthur snap out of it!"
He'd been strange at dinner; distant, distracted, mild-mannered. Alfred had danced with a few pretty partners, lovely ladies with pearls and diamonds and glowing smiles, but Arthur had been sultry at their table and kept constantly looking at the doors. He'd almost accused him of drinking again, but a casual sip of Arthur's seltzer and lime when he wasn't looking had confirmed that the Empire was completely sober.
He'd left the dining hall to send a telegram, saying something about possible trouble in London, but when he came back he was no better for having gone. They went outside for air and Arthur had been distracted by the view.
"It's a very nice view," the Empire had remarked, worrying the Union with his quiet voice and wandering eyes. "Nothing blocking it. You'd think... for a ship this size... there would be more..."
"More what?"
"...Nothing."
Lifeboats.
He'd meant that for a ship this size you'd expect there would be more lifeboats. Alfred hadn't picked up on it at the time, but he should have. It was unseasonably cold for this late in April, or at least it felt like it, and he should have thought of something. He should have said or done something. They were travelling under the names Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones, but it was a British ship and the British Empire had more experience on the open ocean than the ship's entire crew combined. If Alfred had pushed him, maybe Arthur could have done something.
Instead, they'd been sitting in their cabin, Alfred worrying with a glass of sherry in his hand, Arthur distracted and growing more and more anxious, when suddenly they heard the noise.
They'd heard the noise and they'd felt the engines stop rumbling. After four days on a liner you stopped hearing them, the turbines and generators that powered the vessel. You stopped feeling them under your feet or hear them burring in your ears when you tried to sleep. But then they stopped, and everything was entirely too quiet after that.
They'd searched the upper decks together, noticing people in night caps and dressing gowns wandering absently, peering out of their rooms before deciding it was nothing and returning to their beds. Arthur had encouraged this, he hadn't wanted to cause a stir, but when they'd turned to head into restricted areas reserved only for the crew, Arthur had made him stay behind.
When he came back down from the bridge, Alfred heard the news, and he watched his former-brother-gonna-be-friends-again-crotchety-old-mentor mechanically begin knocking on cabin doors and waking up disgruntled passengers. There was no panic in him, not at the surface, but his green eyes refused to come back into focus and his voice, although constant, never rose above a quiet murmur.
Two hours later Arthur still wasn't panicking, but he'd stopped helping the relief efforts, too stunned by watching too many precious lifeboats plunge into the ocean with only a fraction of their seats filled. They were both dressed, Arthur having taken great pains to put on his bowler-hat and scarf, his tie neat under his chin and his long coat and gloves protecting him from the midnight wind. But he was still tumbling numbers in his mind, and Alfred couldn't stand his murmurs.
"Twenty lifeboats. Sixty seats. Twenty-two hundred people on board and only twelve hundred-"
"Arthur!" He shoved a gentleman's flask into the Englishman's hand, the cap already twisted off before he forced the metal rim to Arthur's lips. It was better than screaming at him: yelling only disturbed the frightened crowd and made it hard for the quartet next to them to keep playing for the benefit of the damned. And it was better than shaking Arthur, because that wasn't working. And if he punched him Alfred knew the crowd would turn on him, because there was no escape and they knew it and they'd go down fighting if they thought it would give them the smallest sense of agency.
Arthur resisted the alcohol until it actually entered his mouth, then Alfred stopped forcing it and he let the gentleman go, watching him swallow the liquid. He choked on the burn but didn't stop drinking, eyes closed as he drained the contents all at once. It was greedy, it was bad form, it was a bunch of things Arthur hated, but for all his hard work he barely coughed as he pulled the flask away and handed it back. He gasped once, swallowing a few times while Alfred watched a few beads of wet cling to the other man's lashes, but the tears didn't fall and he wouldn't open his eyes so Alfred could see what was going on in his head. Arthur didn't want to see what was happening around them, he was feeling it all a lot worse than Alfred could imagine.
But he knew. Just because he couldn't imagine it didn't mean he didn't know.
"C'mon, we have to get on those lifeboats-"
"Are you bloody insane?" Arthur asked him, his voice a long, rough exhale as he looked up. "Lifeboat? Absolutely not. I'm not getting on one of those damned things." At least the alcohol loosened his tongue. It was the most Arthur'd said to him in two hours.
"Arthur this is serious-"
"Don't tell me it's serious!" He abruptly shouted, and a young man standing not far from them burst into harsh, raspy tears before vanishing into the cold dark. "I'll float all the way back to Southampton- I'll let that Irish Princess fish me out of the ocean before I let you try and lecture me on what this-"
Alfred hugged him. It wasn't the most masculine thing he could do, but it shut Arthur up and stopped him from saying anything that would put him over the edge. He didn't hug back, he just stood there rigid and shaking in the cold, his face down on Alfred's shoulder as he stopped talking and they listened to the band play. Nearer, to Thee, My God was drifting over their heads, the string quartet refusing to put down their instruments as the deck began to list slightly to one side.
Beautiful ship, so much longer than the Empire State Building was tall, so much grander than any ship in Alfred's New York harbour, slowly slipping down into the black water... Every bit of of resentment he'd felt three days ago about her luxury and her grandeur felt like a lead weight around his neck, just something else trying to drag them all further and further into the deep.
"It hurts..." Arthur breathed after several moments, his arms still pinned relentlessly to his sides as he refused to buckle. His voice was hoarse and would not rise above a whisper, but it wouldn't break or tremble. "I can feel them. I can already feel them drowning..."
"Please hurry," Alfred said, letting go of the shorter man and quickly grabbing his arm, forcing Arthur to push through the standing crowd. "You can help them from the boats, just come on-!" He could help survivors, Arthur was worth more to his people alive than catatonic in the cold water. He wasn't fighting him anymore either, keeping pace as men and women began to break away from the crowd, hurrying inside and coming back out with pieces of furniture: chairs, bedding, life-reserves and extra vests, anything that looked like it would float.
Right when they reached one of the final life-boats and the crowd of people around it, Arthur suddenly lit up like the white flares bursting over their heads.
"Make way!" The Brit shouted, over-taking him in two short steps and changing the balance of power so Arthur was the one doing the dragging. "Out of my way! Get back! You know who I am so don't bloody argue!"
It was a thing that people like them just had. That way of presenting themselves and speaking to their own, the way they could look a human in the eyes and earn immediate recognition regardless of the situation. Patriotism was the entire reason they existed, they were manifestations of the power to go above and beyond the call of duty, to sacrifice the few for the many and protect the self from the other.
Arthur argued his way through the crowd until they came right up to the officer charged with the impossible task of selecting who should live and who would die. When he saw Arthur coming, the man in dress whites couldn't have looked more lost and afraid if he'd started weeping on the spot.
"This boy has connections in Washington, his survival is paramount." Alfred almost screamed when he heard those words come out of Arthur's mouth. "Make room, he's getting on." No!
"Arthur-" No! Not without him, he was not going alone and there was no way-
Arthur came around so fast with his fist that Alfred couldn't catch it. He felt a splitting pain in his jaw right next to his chin, and several of his teeth cracked against one another before he found himself on the deck. Arthur wasn't even looking at him as Alfred blinked the stars out of his eyes, another white flare making the job a lot harder as voices in the crowd started picking up.
"You two, shuffle over! Put that child in your lap, god damn it! Make room! You three climb in next, fill up those seats!" Arthur barked and his people obeyed, citizens, immigrants and tourists weeping where they stood, the rising water terrifying others. "Madame, sit down! What do you think you're-?"
"I am an old woman," with a stiff, proper British accent, "unmarried, with no children or family of which to speak." Patriotism, the willingness to die so someone else might live. Alfred barely had time to look up and see a hoop skirt and hat vanish into the crowd of men, but once he did he found Arthur's hand grabbing him by the scruff and hoisting him up. The smell of the whiskey he'd forced on him was heavy on the Empire's breath, and he practically growled his next words in Alfred's ear:
"My damned humour kept that Frog off this boat, so the only one I have left to worry about is you." Arthur was dragging him, and in the next instant there were more hands on Alfred's chest and legs, taking up his weight and forcing him along. "You tell your brother to wait for word from Westminster and you tell that French Fop he should be thankful!" No, no, no, Alfred tried to struggle but with his limbs in the air he couldn't find his strength, and with fragments of bone and tooth in his jaw he couldn't argue back. "I won't die from a thousand drowning children, Alfred, but so help me I will go down with this ship!"
He found his feet but it was too late. A third flare burst overhead and shone white light down over Arthur's stern face in front of him, and then with a shove Alfred found himself on the curved floor of a lifeboat. He scrambled up but it was too late, his gloved fingertips scraping the black sides of the ship's hull, nothing to hold or grab onto as Arthur's face hovered over him, falling back further and further away as the lifeboat dropped.
With a broken jaw he couldn't say anything. With blurring eyes he could barely see anything. So he wailed and he clawed and he watched Arthur Kirkland step back into the cold night and the company of forsaken men.
The water was rising- no, the ship was sinking, the ocean itself had nothing to do with it. The ocean was hovering at the same level it had been at since England had first taken to it as a conquered runt left behind by the Roman Empire. It was just as cold and dreary and unforgiving as it had been in his exploring days, and in his pirating days, and in his 'I will conquer the world so help me God' days.
The lower the ship sank, the harder it was for him to breathe. If he'd been at home in London it would have still been hard to breathe, but not like this. Maybe he'd be woken up by a sharp pain in his chest, or pressure over his heart, but both of those would have been manageable. But this? No, this was not manageable, he couldn't function like this. It was too much.
He was the most powerful Empire on earth and this was far, far too much...
His stomach was a bag of hot acid, the panic of the crowds festering in his gut. His hands were numb from cold and he hadn't even touched the water yet (yet). He was sweating under his hat and shaking with grief that hadn't manifested yet. He was soaking up the desperation like a sponge, the disbelief leaving him numb and struggling to walk a straight line.
The lean of the ship wasn't helping either...
People were returning to their rooms, some of them. It was uncanny and terrifying, but it was that hopeless resolve that pulled Arthur inside too.
He had to find the worst of the pain, he had to follow the burning in his lungs that was choking him as he stumbled and braced himself against the walls. The ship groaned loudly as if in protest, fighting a losing battle against the ocean. She was struggling, straining to remain upright, but it was a losing battle and they both knew it. But he had to find the worst of his shakes and pains, there had to be something he could do and as he found an empty stairwell, the answer hit him.
Screaming.
He could hear screaming.
He ran down the stairs so fast he did end up falling, tumbling down several sharp metal feet before he hit a platform and found his balance again- or near enough that he could grab the railing and let himself down. The stairs led to a door, and the door led to a hall, a hall with cold water sloshing around his ankles as he came to a sudden stop.
"PLEASE!"
"Please for the love of god!"
"The gate!"
"Let us out! Mercy please!"
A gate. There was a gate. There was a locked gate. There was a gate and it was locked and there were people on the other-
His heart tore, literally, physically, honestly: the muscles in his heart actually tore at the sight of them, at the fear saturating the air and echoing over metal and paint. His lungs refused to breathe and Arthur forced his limbs like a machine to obey him, splashing his way to the men and the women and the children (oh god the children) trapped in front of him.
It was standard procedure, third class had to be kept apart from the rest; they were dirty, often sick, they had to be ordered and counted and deloused in New York, it was typical. But this was not typical: locked gates were not typical. Something was wrong, no one would order this, this was not what these gates were for!
Arthur's hands found the cold metal rungs of the collapsible cage and his hand went out to the first face he could find- a young girl with red hair and sobbing tears. Not English- Irish, he could tell in an instant, but it didn't bloody matter to him, she was British, she was part of his Empire, she was his, she-
"Please open the gate- please, please-" Arthur couldn't speak, there was blood in his throat and he just nodded, mute and crippled. He stumbled to the side of the gate where it was fastened to the wall, ripping off his gloves and letting them float away in the icy water (water that was climbing up to his knees) and tried twisting the knobs, rattling the handle and pulling desperately.
"You can't let us die here!"
No, no he wouldn't he-
"Shoot it off!"
He didn't have his pistol; he'd left it in his and Alfred's room. He hadn't doubled back for it. Their part of the ship was underwater now.
"Please do something!" He kicked it, he wrenched at it, he threw his shoulder into it until that was tender and bruised. His couldn't feel his hands, not even when the sharp metal cut his fingers and slicked the tongue-and-groove slats with blood. It wouldn't open. The mechanisms were jammed, the crowd had bashed something out of place, or maybe it had just never opened to begin with, maybe they'd always been quartered off-
No, this was a new ship. This was her maiden voyage. There was no excuse for jammed and broken and not-working anythings. No. No there was no way this could be happening.
"Open- open damn you!"He grunted, slamming his palms into the gate, moving away from the jammed lock and pulling at the bars with his arms. He was shivering like mad as the green water roared in the hall and it swirled around his waist. But no. No there had to be a way-
'British Empire, British Empire, British Empire-!' If there was ever a time being a nation had a purpose it should be right now, god damn it! What was a paltry gate to an empire that spanned continents!-?
"For the love of god just bend!" He screamed, and he didn't know where the air came from, his heart somehow pulsing in his ears despite the fire ripping away in his chest. He coughed blood and he felt it mixing with tears. He was weeping and he couldn't stop it, not any more than he could stop the water or open the gate. With the desperation there came hands, little fingers that reached through the bars held his coat, and touched his face, and they were all so close but too damn far for him to help.
"Run!" John yelled, pushing the nation's hands away from the bars. "Run now, the water's rising!" It was so cold, swirling around his waist-
"Go, it's too late-" Mary sobbed, and her husband George was there with his arms around her from behind, squeezing her close. There children had already been lost in the chaos and crush of the lower decks.
"No-"
"Hail Britannia-"
"No, I'm not-"
He had his foot braced on the wall next to him now, the entire corridor tilted at such a wild angle. He could look down and see the green water rising, rising, creeping and splashing and lapping at the arms and legs and torsos and necks. No, he couldn't leave, no, the pain wouldn't let him leave-
"Please get to the boats-" There were no more boats, so even if he could open the gate, there was no more hope.
"If any of you think I'm leaving then you can just sod off!" He shouted, trying to get through to one damned person on this entire ship that he wasn't going to run away. The tilt grew worse and he started shivering as the cold wrapped its way around his burning chest, the erratic beat of his heart slowing down from cold and raw stress. "There's nowhere left to run and I'm not going to bloody well make a fool of myself trying!"
He reached both arms through the bars, letting them bite into his shoulders as he strained against the gushing water. He touched Jacob's shoulder and brushed a lock of hair off Elizabeth's wet face, nodding as Marshall took off his hat and clung to the bars so he wouldn't fall back into the icy death. When Jane's face slipped under the green Arthur strained to keep his chin up. His feet left the floor, the cold gripping his shoulders as he locked hands with Thomas and let Jenny reach through the bars and wrap her arm as far around his back as she could go.
The lights flickered once, twice, then died. There was only darkness, he couldn't even see Annie's blonde hair, and Benjamin choked on the heavy salts before he ran out of space between the walls and the bars.
With one last scream and his forehead against the ceiling, the mighty Atlantic claimed Arthur Kirkland too.
"I will go down with this ship" HEADDESK. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to insert a meme, I didn't want to, I just- ack. WHAT ELSE WAS HE SUPPOSED TO SAY? If YOU can come up with a better parting line then send it to me, until then TUMBLR TUMBLR ALL OVER MY FIC I'M SORRY.
Gates between Third and Second class existed on a lot of ships at this time, but on the Titanic they weren't intentionally locked to let people drown. Everything I've read stated that IF they were left locked, it was because of the severe breakdown in communication that happened between crew members (same reason why lifeboats were cast off with less than half their seats filled).
There's a second chapter to this that helps make the title "Southampton" make more sense, but I haven't finished it yet. I'm just tired of sitting on this thing and telling myself I've posted when I obviously haven't.
Hope you guys enjoyed this, and I'll see you around in Chapter 2!
