Chapter Text
The wind ripped through Craig's hair as he crossed the dark expanse of the empty stern deck. He'd reached a dead end. The fear that had hunted him all day closed in with a sudden, sinking finality, and he knew he'd made a mistake.
The realization crept into his mind when he entered Southampton's third-class boarding queue that morning. It dragged along his scalp with the sharp points of the comb during inspection, and vibrated through his bones with the deafening blare of Titanic's whistle. It chased him through narrow, windowless passageways that filled his senses with white doors in white walls with white pipes.
And he kept putting it aside, filing it away for later. He told himself he'd be okay once boarded. Once he made his way down to G deck and found his berth. Once he got away from the five unfamiliar men who would be bunking with him.
Once he got some fresh air.
He'd dangled reassurances in front of himself one after another, and now he was here: the furthest point on Titanic's stern, looking back at the shrinking lights of Cherbourg on the black horizon.
Every scent, every touch, every sound still clung to his bones like outgrown shoes, stretched tight and brittle, pressing too hard in sensitive places. He could only stand still, hold himself in a position that didn't hurt, and try to ignore the urge to throw himself over the railing and let the waves scrape the wrongness from his skin.
It would be better once he got to America.
Seven days from now.
He struck a match before he realized he had a cigarette between his lips, his body moving without him.
By the time he lit his second cigarette, the world felt a little quieter. It was as though the fist that had been closing around him paused at the last moment, and he could see again.
Craig turned away from the railing to survey his surroundings, the ill-fitted suit jacket from the church's charity bin flapping around his waist in the constant rush of wind. It was too tight across the shoulders and too loose around the middle; the sleeves were too short until he'd dropped the hems, and he spent his days on the train painstakingly stitching in the smallest curl of a seam to capture the unraveling threads. He wondered if he'd be turned away at the dock for it, but no one looked at him twice.
The mismatched ensemble was less obvious in the dark, but no one was around to judge him for it. Either it was too late for anyone else to be roaming about, or he'd wandered somewhere off limits. At least the scattered benches meant wandering passengers weren't wholly unexpected.
Probably. The crew needed benches too, he supposed.
A blur of movement grabbed Craig's attention, and a man staggered across the deck like he was falling, illuminated by the unnerving steadiness of the electric lights. All Craig could focus on, at first, was that the man's hair wasn't whipping around him—cemented in place—unlike the fancy, matching fabrics of his jacket and his slacks. His waistcoat fit snug and unmoving, but the coordinating tie flapped over his shoulder as he clawed it loose. The man didn't seem to notice or care when it broke free from him entirely.
Craig's eyes tracked it as it skittered across the deck. The long, silken fabric caught on the metal legs of the nearest bench, lifting and fluttering like a flag. Stuck.
If it held on long enough and the man left it behind, perhaps Craig could take it. He'd never owned a tie.
The railing clanged when the man collided with it like a drunkard. He held onto it with a white-knuckled grip, his body tensing as if it had been hit by the same inexplicable urge to jump. But he only stood there, muttering to himself, fidgeting and rocking against the rail.
Craig rarely knew what people were feeling by their faces or tone, but this felt familiar, a tangible distress that rippled through his nerves like a pebble in water. He shuffled a few steps to his left, widening the space between them, though Craig wasn't sure if it was for the man's benefit or his own. Maybe both.
The man let go of the railing, grappling over his pockets as if he'd been robbed, eyes wide and urgent. Craig opened his mouth to mention the tie, only for the tension to drop from the man's shoulders as he fished out a cigarette.
Of course he wasn't looking for the tie in his pocket.
Craig tore his eyes away, embarrassed.
He could still sense the man rustling beside him, followed by the clumsy chink-chink-chink of a lighter.
"Shit—! God dammit, son of a—"
The cigarette quivered between the narrow pinch of the man's lips, the flame dancing and dying as his shaking hand failed to shield it, the pale skin of his face saturated in unstable flashes of orange.
And Craig wasn't sure how it happened—whether it was an unintentional twitch of his wrist or something else—but the lighter escaped the man's hold. He screeched as if he'd lit himself on fire, juggling the glinting metal between his palms before a final, desperate grab smacked it over the railing.
The man's hand froze mid-grasp, mouth falling open. Part of Craig's mind spiraled into the water, the strange horror of it—a shiny silver lighter forever on the seafloor, never to be retrieved, no matter how badly it was missed.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
The frayed scream yanked Craig's attention back to the deck, and he looked up in time to see the man stumbling back from the railing. Both fists clutched moonlit blonde hair, breaking through the smoothly combed sides.
The unlit cigarette still clung to his lips, and Craig's matchbox was in his hand before he fully realized what he was doing.
"You need…?" The words died in his throat when the full force of the man's attention landed on him. A wild animal in the dark, visible only by the reflected light in its eyes. Vaguely, Craig wondered if he'd be slapped overboard next.
The man hurried closer, closing the space between them with a suddenness that forced Craig to take a step backward, if only to avoid the impact of his sheer presence.
"Yes! Thank… God—yes. Thank you."
Craig struck a match against the side of the box, the weatherproof flame holding strong and bright behind the curve of his palm. As the man leaned in, puffing his cigarette, the flame glowed in his eyes like the sunset behind the church's stained glass Santa Maria—rich and green and otherworldly.
Craig flicked the match over the railing. It blinked out, swallowed up by the dark, and didn't feel like a loss.
The man straightened, a trembling hand fidgeting with his waistcoat, shoulders jerking like he was stifling the urge to cough. He stayed close, turning his body toward the railing without having reclaimed the distance.
Okay.
They were sharing space, apparently. Craig didn't have the energy to let himself question the impossibility, the sheer impropriety of it all. He was too conscious of his proximity to the man, the weight of his own arm as he lowered his cigarette, the way his joints felt like they'd been replaced with corroded axles.
The man cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders as he smoothed down the front of his jacket. "I—well… I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
Craig glanced at him. Of course they hadn't.
"Richard Tweak." He pushed a plume of smoke out through his nose and added, "The third."
Craig looked down at the black water, out toward the horizon, then back to Mr. Tweak. He was staring at Craig, eyebrows raised, taking a slow pull on his cigarette. "Craig Tucker. Uh. The first."
Mr. Tweak smiled, first with his lips and then with his teeth. It made his face look softer, younger, erasing the downward tilt etched into the corners of his mouth. There was still a heaviness to his features, a bone-deep fatigue worn on the faces of dockworkers back in Genoa. One Craig had grown accustomed to in his own reflection.
It didn't belong on a man like Mr. Tweak.
"The first?"
Craig shrugged, lifting his cigarette to his lips and refocusing on the railing. "There were no others."
Mr. Tweak laughed. "Tell me, Mr. Tucker," he said, looking up as if speaking to the sky. His tone shifted in a way Craig couldn't interpret. "Do you enjoy backgammon?"
Craig hesitated, waiting for the words to make sense. They didn't make sense. Scratching at his hair, Craig followed Mr. Tweak's gaze to the stars. "I don't know."
Mr. Tweak hummed, a wisp of smoke curling into the darkness.
"What is it?" Craig asked, uncomfortably annoyed. He didn't like not knowing, the feeling of secrets behind locked doors. "Back-gammon?"
Embers crackled softly as Mr. Tweak took another drag, and Craig let himself fixate on it, the quiet inhale and the sigh that followed. "A board game," Mr. Tweak answered, slow, like he was choosing his words carefully. "I don't recommend it, actually. Dreadfully boring."
"Oh."
The wind felt a little colder, and Craig frowned up at the half-moon. It would wane throughout the voyage, leaving the stars bright and brilliant. He'd like nothing more than to stay and watch them, but now more than ever, it was clear that he was out of place.
Mr. Tweak was mocking him, probably, with the game. Some coy play at politeness, avoiding calling attention to the absurdity of Craig being allowed to exist in his space while actively driving him away.
Craig finished off his cigarette, flicking the butt over the railing. "Sorry. I… am lost, maybe."
He'd barely taken a step back when Mr. Tweak jolted as if he'd been grabbed from behind, the cigarette nearly falling from his grip. "Wait, Mr. Tucker," he blurted, his voice climbing back toward a frantic shrill.
Craig froze. The cigarette quivered between Mr. Tweak's fingers, his free hand grasping at his collar as though to loosen the tie that wasn't there. A quick glance proved it was still clinging to the bench.
"I—Jesus." Mr. Tweak's head jerked to the side, one eye flinching closed like he'd been struck. "I believe I'm-mmm…ugh. The one who is out of place. You can—please stay."
With a slow, measured step, Craig reclaimed his spot at the railing, and Mr. Tweak's shoulders sagged.
"I think I passed through a crew area to get here. Can you imagine? But I… Forgive me." He trailed off, straightening his posture. "I'm not usually—I mean, sometimes. That is—I am, in the sense that—"
The words began blurring together, mixing into sounds Craig couldn't follow. Like a warped and scratched record on a gramophone, nonsense interspersed with familiar fragments:
"—Well…"
"... and I—"
"Father, of course."
"Sir—?"
"Mr. Tucker?"
Craig's eyes slid open, though he wasn't quite sure when he'd closed them. He rubbed at his brow with the heel of his hand, pushing back the overwhelm. "Troppo."
"Oh?" Mr. Tweak paused with his cigarette a breath away from his lips. He cocked his head, considering, jaw shifting like he was grinding his teeth. "Agh—Italian?"
It was a surprising relief to even be asked, for someone to finally recognize the language that he'd grown most comfortable with. "Parli italiano?"
"Ah—! No." Mr. Tweak laughed, tight and scratchy, like thin fabric pulled around a sharp corner. "That is—mi dispiace, ma no. I don't."
He certainly didn't—not with an accent like that. It was worse than Craig's, the mishmash of his native tongue and speaking patterns he'd picked up from foreigners passing through Genoa's port. Mr. Tweak spoke with all the fluidity of someone who could parrot a textbook, marked with a flat emptiness that said he'd never cared to learn in the first place.
"It sounded familiar, is all," Mr. Tweak went on. "My father has business contacts in Italy. Had, I suppose. How well can one conduct business halfway across the world, I wonder?"
Maybe it was in Craig's mind, or maybe he was getting used to the ever-changing tempo of Mr. Tweak's voice, but his words were easier to follow now. Slower, if only a little. The reedy strain of an over-tuned instrument was fading, leaving behind something low and rough around the edges, shot like he'd been screaming.
"You don't quite sound Italian, if I may be so bold. Where are you from?"
"Italy." Craig hesitated. "Before that, Peru."
"Peru!" Mr. Tweak's eyes brightened. "How wonderfully exotic. However did you end up in Italy? You spoke… Spanish, perhaps? In Peru?"
Craig carefully selected another cigarette and placed it between his lips, buying some time to think. Exotic—he didn't know what it meant. He wouldn't speak of his past while he sailed toward his future, but he could answer the last question, at least. "Some do. I didn't."
Mr. Tweak hummed in acknowledgment, and whether or not Craig had given him a sufficient answer, he didn't press for more.
Silence fell over them, soft and stifling. There were rules that everyone but Craig seemed to have been born knowing, and it felt like there was something he should do here. Something to fill the silence and carry on the conversation, or maybe the conversation was meant to be over.
Maybe the social expectation was that a lower-class man should leave first, and Mr. Tweak was waiting impatiently, politely, for him to go. But why should he presume to do anything first? More likely, Mr. Tweak would decide when their interaction was over, and he would either dismiss Craig or leave on his own.
Unless the silence was, in itself, a dismissal.
Mr. Tweak finished his cigarette and slipped another between his lips. "Light, dear sir," he prompted, leaning in, close enough for Craig to smell the citrusy spice of his pomade. It took a moment for Craig's brain to catch up, and when it did, he fumbled his matchbox out of his pocket.
"I understand the lower-class accommodations are quite nice," Mr. Tweak said as he lit up. He straightened, looking Craig up and down, but it didn't feel the way it often did—like an animal up for auction. He was just… being looked at. Considered. "Tell me… How do you find the ship?"
"Uh." Craig scratched at his brow with the edge of his thumb, cigarette balanced between two fingers. An odd question, but it wasn't the first odd question he'd ever been asked. What could he do but answer?
Train from Genoa to France, changing to PLM at the border—steam engines, both. Then a boat, then another train in England.
"London and South Western Railway to Southampton. This is…" Craig pinched his fingers together, rocking his wrist as he searched for the words. People at home—back in Italy—did it all the time, and Craig never fully understood all the ways people talked with their hands and their faces and their bodies, but his own body mirrored it despite him. "Worst train."
It wasn't until he finished that he realized he'd been talking too long, and he glanced up to gauge Mr. Tweak's reaction.
There was a softness in Mr. Tweak's brow that scratched at something deep and uncomfortable in the back of Craig's mind. It was similar to the looks he used to get from the priests, from anyone who saw him as a god-sent test of their charity.
"Oh… My dear man." The words didn't carry the sound Craig had learned to associate with pity. "I… came by train as well." Mr. Tweak hesitated, chewing at the rough skin of his lip. "The estate's in Normandy, so I was fortunate enough to avoid the British railways entirely. They are the worst, aren't they?"
"Yes."
Mr. Tweak lowered his eyes as he inhaled, the tip of his cigarette flaring in the dark. "Tell me more about the others. Steam engines, you said?"
It was already impossible to accept that this odd, most assuredly first class man was standing at Craig's side in the first place. As if he didn't have better places to be, more interesting people to socialize with. More important people.
Asking Craig to talk about trains of all things… It was a cruel twist of fate, or pure bad luck. Because Craig wouldn't be able to deny him.
Still, Craig started slowly—one sentence, a pause, then another—waiting for Mr. Tweak to cut him off. And, like a train picking up speed, the churning, halting words eventually smoothed into something too fast and sure to be stopped. Mr. Tweak only stoked the fire, coaxing him to continue with polite sounds of interest and quiet interjections, supplying English words when Craig got stuck:
"Cylinders, yes."
"Boiler, perhaps?"
"Mr. Tucker, I haven't the foggiest notion, but do go on."
Craig pulled his matchbox back out when Mr. Tweak finished off his second cigarette, but Mr. Tweak only shook his head, leaning his elbows against the rail to listen.
Craig stalled, his brain catching up with his mouth. His cigarette had burned down to his knuckles, wasted on the wind, and Craig let it drop into the ocean. He wiped his hands off on his shirt.
"This is boring for you."
"Not at all." Mr. Tweak's lips curved into a smile as he adjusted to rest his chin on his palm. "This is the most pleasant interaction I've had since boarding this godforsaken ship."
Craig lifted an eyebrow, tracing his fingers along the white enameled railing. "It's a good ship, no?"
"So they claim." Mr. Tweak reached for his breast pocket with a trembling hand, producing a carefully bundled handkerchief. He stepped away from the railing, letting the bundle unfurl into his palm. "You're a smart man, Mr. Tucker, clearly."
That was… new. Any time someone bothered to remark on Craig's intelligence, it was only to call him simple. No one had ever called him smart—certainly not someone of Mr. Tweak's pedigree.
As if to prove him wrong, Craig realized belatedly that Mr. Tweak had continued with a question, but the words had been carried away like the ash of his cigarette in the wind. Gone. Wasted.
"What?"
Mr. Tweak angled away from him, tapping the edge of a tiny bottle over his tongue. He twisted a metal lid back into place, then set about wrapping the bottle in the handkerchief once more. "Steel," Mr. Tweak repeated, brows furrowed as he tucked in the edges of the fabric. "It sinks, does it not?"
"Sometimes." Craig smoothed his hand over the railing again, mapping the subtle texture of the brush strokes. Steel wouldn't sink as long as the weight of the water it displaced was greater than its own, but Craig didn't have the words for that.
He didn't know if Mr. Tweak wanted words anyway. Not with the way he pressed on, like this was a topic he was eager to talk about. Something special that he liked.
"An unsinkable ship is a fallacy. You must know. To say such a thing—unsinkable. They damned her the moment they dared print that on the brochure." Mr. Tweak tucked the bundled handkerchief back into his pocket and turned to face Craig directly. "A ship is only unsinkable until it sinks, Mr. Tucker."
Craig frowned, rolling the words over in his mind. If the experts said Titanic was unsinkable, Craig had no reason to question it. He had no reason to question Mr. Tweak either—it was a logic Craig could follow, despite what anyone else said. A god was omnipotent until one stopped believing in it.
Craig hadn't believed in a long time. Maybe he never had.
"Yes," he agreed. Craig pushed away from the railing, turning to find Mr. Tweak giving him that considering look again. Soft and unfamiliar, but not—apparently—unkind.
"Yes?" Mr. Tweak asked, his eyes flickering, searching Craig's face.
"Twenty lifeboats," Craig said, nodding to the boat deck beyond Mr. Tweak's shoulder. "Why, on an unsinkable ship?"
The smile that stretched over Mr. Tweak's face was too broad to be proper, too feral for his elegant face. "A smart man," he repeated. "You delight me so." Extending a hand, Mr. Tweak schooled his expression, his head jerking with the effort. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Tucker."
Craig knew what to do with this, despite how little he enjoyed doing it. Slowly, giving Mr. Tweak a chance to pull away, he slid his hand into the waiting grasp. It was warm, skin too soft to belong to a man. A single firm shake, Mr. Tweak's free hand briefly cupping the top of their joined hold, and it was over before Craig could fully process it.
"Yes," Craig blurted, tucking his hand away. "Mr. Tweak. A pleasure."
"Oh God," Mr. Tweak groaned, his shoulders spasming. "Don't call me that."
That was his name, wasn't it? Craig knew he hadn't misheard, but maybe he had. He couldn't even ask without undermining every claim the other man had made about his intelligence.
"I can't stand it—going by my father's name. Richard Tweak." He spat the name as if it had rotted on his tongue. He gripped his hair again, the structured hold of the pomade already broken down into useless spikes. "I should have—I don't know—made something up? Agh—I didn't think you were listening, man—"
"I was listening."
Mr. Tweak made a sound that was almost a laugh, high and slightly hysterical. "Well, yes, I know that now. You're very… Good at that. Aren't you?"
Craig shrugged. He was when he wanted to be, when something caught his interest. And Mr. Tweak was a contradiction, surprisingly easy to listen to despite everything that should have made him otherwise.
Mr. Tweak sighed, letting his arms drop. "I suppose it doesn't matter, does it? It's not as though we'll—"
"Tweek," Craig interjected. He didn't want to hear it, for whatever reason. Even if it was the truth.
"Pardon?"
"No mister. Only Tweek."
It was only in the swelling silence that Craig realized how foolish this was, how little it accomplished aside from blatant disrespect. The smile crept back onto Mr. Tweak's face, slow and then all at once, quivering at the corners like he was trying to hold it back.
"Father would be livid." He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, then curled his lips around them, looking away. "Only Tweek it is, then."
Craig let out a breath, the unpleasant feeling squirming inside of him rushing out with it. Words rose in his throat—will you be here tomorrow?—but he forced them back. He couldn't ask. There was no reason to, aside from this being the most pleasant interaction he'd had as well.
"Right," Tweek sighed, rolling his shoulders back. "Goodnight, Mr. Tucker."
Craig swallowed. "Goodnight, Tweek."
Tweek's eyes sparkled as if they'd shared a joke, warm and secretive, and he lingered for what might have been a moment too long before loping away, hands shoved into his pockets.
Mr. Tucker.
Tweek's shoulders were disappearing down the stairs by the time Craig realized he should have insisted on being called by his first name. The surge of disappointment was sudden and disorienting—regret, almost humiliation, burning into something charred and unknowable, anger rising from it like smoke. The feeling of having ruined everything.
But there was nothing to ruin.
It wasn't as though they'd see each other again.
Looking back over the water, at the glimmering lights of Cherbourg, Craig struck a match with enough force to break it, the end sparking to life as it spiraled overboard. He closed his eyes, took a breath, then struck another, heat dancing over his lips as he lit up.
The overwhelm he'd sought to escape crept up his spine once more, curled like claws around his throat. He slipped a hand into his pocket for the familiar weight of his rosary, mother of pearl beads shaped by the worrying of his fingers.
He traced ten small beads in a row, each separated by a delicate silver link.
Three more links followed by a larger bead.
Three links, then another set of ten.
Craig kept counting, rotating the pocketed rosary against his palm with twisting fingers, until his cigarette was gone and he became too aware of the cold on his cheeks.
He went inside and did not think of Richard Tweak the third.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Craig didn't remember the tie until morning.
It was still dark, the cabin cold and hotly humid, condensation clinging to the outer wall. In the bunk above him, a man who might have been called Mr. Donovan snored like a motorcar, catching and rumbling and backfiring. He or one of the other four men must have made use of the chamberpot during the night, the musty smell of beer-saturated urine hanging low in the air, mixed with the lingering, chemical odor of the fresh enamel.
Craig had shoved the provided White Star Line blanket toward his knees during the night, fighting against the woolen itch under his chin, then his neck, then around his arms. His legs were too warm, sweat accumulating behind his knees, but a damp chill had settled over his torso.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept this well, or this comfortably. Maybe he never had.
The wall angled outward with the shape of the ship's hull, and past the black shape of Mr. Donovan's bunk, Craig could just make out the barely-there spot of deep blue light seeping in through the open porthole. The same color as Mr. Tweak's tie.
Tweek.
Craig huffed out a sigh, pushing himself onto his elbows. He'd spent the past several weeks so concerned about simply getting here that he hadn't bothered to consider what he'd do once he arrived. His days in Genoa consisted of heading to the docks at dawn to look for work, spending most of his earnings on a midday dinner, then sleeping among the sailors and the homeless and, occasionally, in the home of a kind stranger—only to wake up the next day and do it again.
There was a smoking room for third class—was he meant to spend his days there? Why should he, when he could smoke just as well anywhere else?
It was the thought of a morning smoke that gave him an excuse to move, aching from the forced curl of his too-long legs against the railing. He sat up carefully, minding the metal edge of Mr. Donovan's bunk. Craig had already hit his head on it once, and while he felt more secure lower to the floor, he was beginning to regret not claiming an upper bunk when he had the opportunity.
The match sparked bright and blinding in the dim light, and from somewhere across the cabin, a voice Craig had come to recognize as Mr. Black's grunted, "Darling, the stove…"
Craig snorted and reached under the bed for his trunk, burning cigarette clamped between his lips.
He dressed himself in yesterday's clothes, and he was in the process of storing his trunk away when the electric lights in the corridor flickered on, flooding through the gap beneath the door.
Craig didn't bother lighting the room's lamp, content to let his bunkmates sleep. Preferring they did. Last night was a cacophony of foreign, rapidly spoken languages and accents that registered as little more than noise. His head pounded from it, and with the constant rise and fall from their position in the bow, he'd spent a long while lying in bed trying not to vomit. He might've been better off if he had, but he didn't know where he should—or, absurdly, if it was allowed. All he could do was place his hands over his ears and swallow back the saliva pooling under his tongue until sleep claimed him.
Glancing at the sleeping forms around him, he decided he at least had time to brush his hair back, smoothing it with a licked palm. His hair always held its shape well enough on its own, but looking at it now, on the small rectangle of mirror bolted to the wall, it didn't seem as nice as he'd once thought.
Before last night, he had nothing better to compare it to.
The hiss of paper on metal tore his attention from the mirror, and he looked over his shoulder to see a pristine envelope slide beneath the door.
The day's menu, perhaps. Or something that would tell him what to do, where to go.
He crossed the room quietly, picking up the envelope. It was heavy, undoubtedly expensive, stamped with the White Star Line insignia. In the center, it bore the shape of two words more familiar than any other: CRAIG TUCKER. Beneath that, one he'd only recently come to recognize, scribbled almost illegibly: Steerage.
Dread.
Sudden, all-consuming dread.
The empty roar in his mind made him feel like he was back on deck, thoughts ripped away by the wind. He checked the floor for what he already knew wasn't there—he was the only one who'd received an envelope.
He already knew why. Some part of him must have known since last night.
He'd unwittingly trespassed.
Someone saw him engaging with Tweek and reported it—Mr. Tweak reported it.
He'd said something that caused offense, or the other man realized, in horror, that he'd accidentally wasted his first evening on the finest ship in the world talking to a steerage passenger.
Craig moved back to his bunk on numb legs, the metal frame creaking as he sat. The first traces of sun had started creeping in through the porthole, casting a diffused splash of light over the paper. His sweaty, too-tight grip had already damaged it, less perfect for merely existing in his presence.
Would he be ordered to disembark in Queenstown? Pay a fine? He didn't have any money. Even his ticket was paid for by the church's charity fund.
His pocketknife sliced through the top of the envelope before he could think any further.
The letter was on matching stationery, a crisp fold across the middle, fitted so perfectly into the envelope that it almost seemed stuck. And—fuck it. He tore the envelope away like a stubborn fruit peel. He was shaking inside, and some part of him hated how steady his hands were as he unfolded the letter.
The onslaught of slanted writing was overwhelming, dizzying. Elegant, looping flourishes blended into each other, each one nearly identical to the last.
He couldn't read this. Even as he skimmed the paper up and down for something familiar, a landmark to orient himself around, the hope of finding one had already dwindled.
As he folded the paper back in on itself, his eyes snagged on a familiar shape. Swoops at the beginning and halfway through, the word as round and gentle as its meaning: forgive.
Reopening the letter, Craig worked his way back to the beginning—parsing out the spaces between the words, familiarizing himself with the jittery, unfamiliar penmanship—then all the way through to the end, until he'd mapped out the terrain just enough to try navigating it.
My dear Mr. Tucker,
I wished to thank you for your kindness last evening. I was —— —— at a loss, and your thoughtful— spared me a great deal of ——.
I hope you will forgive me for saying that I —— the —— as much as the kindness. Should you find yourself at —— after breakfast, I would be glad of the —— to continue our —— on the — deck.
I am pleased to assure you that there was no —— in our meeting. I should regret very much if you —— thinking you had been ——.
Until then, you have my deepest ——.
Yours sincerely,
Craig didn't recognize the last words, not in this sequence, not in this context. But he knew them anyway, an unfamiliar certainty squeezing his chest: Richard Tweak III.
Letting out a shaky breath, Craig skimmed over the letter again. Then again. Until he could anticipate each curve, each space, each blot where the pen had lingered just a moment too long, and the meaning—as far as he understood it—didn't change.
Tweek wanted to see him again.
Craig folded the letter back along the crease, smoothing it flat, and carefully slipped it back into the ruined envelope. It was just intact enough to hold onto the letter like a book cover, and Craig gently tore away a particularly jagged edge. It didn't help. It would never be as nice as it once was.
Tweek… wrote him a letter. No one had ever bothered to write to him before. Why would they?
Why would Tweek?
Flipping the envelope back over in his hands, he traced his thumb over the word 'steerage'. It had been written with enough force to leave a subtle dip in the paper, so unlike the elegant, liquid script of his name.
There was a mail room on board, he supposed. Delivering mail between passengers ought to be nothing compared to transporting it across the Atlantic, but surely they would demand some form of address. He could almost imagine Tweek standing at a beautifully polished counter, one hand in his hair, the other scribbling down the place Craig clearly belonged.
And that meant…
There hadn't been a misunderstanding. Tweek hadn't been under the impression he was speaking to a dark and poorly dressed man of his own class.
Craig pulled in a slow breath, holding it as he shifted to tuck the envelope into the pocket of his coat, then stopped. He opted for his trunk instead, retrieving it once more to secure the letter flat against one of the rigid sides, held in place by his sparse belongings.
He still didn't know what to do with himself, but for now, this was enough: Breakfast, and then to Mr. Tweak's side.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The sun reflected off the water in fragments of brilliant white, and Craig flinched back from it as he crested the stairs to the stern deck. He tugged down the short brim of his cap for the sparse line of shade—for the security of feeling hidden.
He should have considered that the deck had only been so comfortably empty last night due to the hour. Now, it seemed like everyone had emerged from the lower decks for a bit of sun. All of the benches were occupied—mothers and fathers watching their children scurry around, important-looking men speaking amongst themselves with important-looking hand gestures.
A small crowd lined the railing at the farthest point stern, where he and Mr. Tweak had stood alone not so long ago, looking back at the world they'd left behind. The Blue Ensign, which had been raised at some point between Craig's departure and now, snapped loudly in the wind.
He should go back down. To the smoking room, maybe. The general room. He wasn't sure of the difference.
"Ah!" The sanded scratch of Mr. Tweak's voice was already familiar. He stepped out of the shade of the docking bridge with a smile that seemed a little more restrained than it had been last night. Or maybe it was just the light. "Good morning, Mr. Tucker—"
"Craig." It burst out of him like steam under pressure, mounting ever since they parted.
Mr. Tweak's eyebrows shot up. He'd stopped a polite distance away, just close enough to talk privately, but with their position between the benches, in what must have been the very center of the deck, Craig felt too exposed, off-balance.
"Only… Craig. Please, Mr. Tweak."
Mr. Tweak scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. "Am I not only Tweek?"
Craig faltered, trying to make sense of Mr. Tweak's posture in the too-bright light. The ocean was loud, and so was the wind. It carried the smell of fish and salt and freshly cut wood directly into his face, mixed with the soft scent of lavender drifting from Mr. Tweak.
"Only Tweek, yes," Craig said—or he thought he said. He wanted to go inside.
"Craig. I… trust you received my letter? You're not merely here by happenstance?"
"Yes." Craig groped for his pocket to prove it, his heart sinking when his fingers encountered only his rosary. "What do you want?"
Tweek laughed. "You are just as delightful as I recall." When Craig squinted up at him, a silhouette in the sunlight, Tweek added, "It's rather crowded up here, isn't it? Walk with me."
He lifted his arm in an awkward gesture, and just for a moment, Craig had the absurd thought that Tweek was offering to escort him—like one of those beautiful men holding the arm of a beautiful woman on the upper deck—but Tweek only reached for his breast pocket with a spasmodic jerk of his hand.
As they made their way to the stairs, Tweek tapped a drop from his tiny vial into his mouth. And the wind was just right, Craig's focus was just right, for the sting of alcohol to hit his nose, mixed with something musty and floral and nauseatingly familiar that made Craig's throat tighten.
"Medicine?" he asked, though he knew better than to intrude.
"For my nerves," Tweek murmured, wrapping the vial back in its handkerchief. He tucked it away as he had the night before, patting his pocket for good measure.
When they reached the well deck, Craig found himself being herded to the left, almost surprised when his back came to rest against a door that was painted to blend in.
"Much better," Tweek sighed, leaning back against the wall.
The upper level of the stern deck cast a deep enough shadow this time of day, stretching halfway across the well deck. Most of the crowd had ventured upward as a result, seeking out sunshine. While the air at sea could never be considered quiet—not with the wind and the waves and the sounds of the ship creaking and churning and hissing out steam—this really was better.
Craig could actually see Tweek now—the soft gray suit that made him seem less intimidating, somehow, than last night's formal black. The waistcoat had been replaced with a hat—a flat one much like Craig's, though it looked newer, more perfectly assembled, seemingly made from the same fabric as Tweek's jacket.
Much better.
Craig shifted his weight, digging out his cigarettes just for something to do with his hands.
"Are you traveling alone?" Tweek asked, and Craig nodded as he slipped a cigarette between his lips. "Really? No Mrs. Tucker aboard?"
Craig leaned in, lighting up on the flame Tweek produced for him. A different lighter from last night, because of course he had more than one.
"No." It came out with a puff of smoke.
"Waiting for you in New York, perhaps?" Tweek paused to light his own cigarette, eyes narrowed in concentration. "Or—ngh, back in Italy?"
Craig shook his head, and when he realized Tweek still wasn't looking at him, he added, "There's no Mrs. Tucker."
Tweek sighed around his first inhale, pocketing his lighter. "Tucker," he mused. "It's not Peruvian, is it? Nor is Craig, I expect."
"Tucker, no. Craig is… close enough."
Craig traced the lines between the wooden slats of the deck with his eyes, counting them, waiting for the inevitable question: What's your real name? He'd admit he didn't remember, and Tweek would find him strange, irreparably lacking. In the end, they'd casually, uncomfortably, go their separate ways and never look back.
Tweek said something, and it was so unlike the words Craig expected that it took a moment for his brain to catch up.
"Do you like it?"
Craig couldn't help but glance up, fidgeting with his cigarette. Tweek was already looking at him, stained glass eyes flickering as he scanned Craig's face for… something. He wasn't smiling, but it didn't seem like a bad thing. There was a softness in his face that made it seem like he was waiting, like he actually wanted to hear Craig's answer.
Craig shrugged. "It's mine." The name Craig felt like home, even if the sound had been smudged and softened over time. He didn't want to be called anything else.
Tweek's smile curved back into place. "It suits you."
Craig didn't know how to answer that. He didn't have to. Tweek cleared his throat pointedly and carried on, "I'm—ugh. Traveling with my father." He hesitated, smoothing down the front of his shirt. "No Mrs. Tweak either, aside from my mother. She's here as well. You mustn't tell anyone."
Who would Craig tell? It seemed quite normal, anyway, traveling with one's family. "Okay."
Tweek's lips twitched in a flat sort of smile. "Good man."
The silence that followed felt easier, unexpectant. They stood together, just out of the way of the other steerage passengers strolling the deck, heading up the stairs, or venturing back into the shadow of the third class entrance. Another metal staircase stood across from them, leading up to B deck, though no one so much as wandered near it—it was gated at the top with a sign posted, and Craig didn't need to try reading it to know what it said.
He supposed there wasn't a similar sign on the other side, daring to tell the rich that they weren't allowed forward. Maybe no one imagined that someone like Tweek would want to in the first place.
What did his family think when they saw him open that gate? Did they even know?
He must have been stared at. Even dressed more comfortably, he looked like he belonged on the higher decks, overlooking the stern like royalty. But he seemed completely unconcerned by the eyes that lingered on him, brief and polite, or the occasional whisper behind a cupped hand. He simply finished off his cigarette and followed it with another drop from his vial. Then one more.
The sun continued to rise, the shaded area gradually shrinking. Craig still didn't understand what Tweek wanted, but it didn't really matter anymore. It was something to do, somewhere to be, someone who demanded nothing but Craig's presence. Though even that hadn't felt demanding—not really. Craig could announce his leave without explanation, and he couldn't imagine Tweek would do anything but bid him good day. And somehow, inexplicably backward, that kept Craig from wanting to leave at all.
He should say something. Probably.
"Normandy," he blurted. The first thing that came to mind. Tweek blinked up at him, lifting his eyebrows. "You don't… sound French." Craig hesitated. "Uh. If I may be so bold."
Tweek grinned, sharp and bright. "You do listen, don't you?" His elbow nudged lightly against Craig's, retreating just as quickly. An accident. "I'm not French. I barely speak it. The estate was—" Tweek cut himself off, his neck jerking sharply. He tugged a finger under his collar, pulling it away from his throat. "—A prestigious thing. Ngh. I think. For my father. I hardly spent any time there before… Well. I suppose I… returned to England for a while."
"Will you go back?"
Tweek snorted—loud and unglamorous. "God no." He fiddled with his collar for a moment, then his fingers drifted down to his breast pocket. He hesitated, then jerked his hand back up, biting at the edge of a fingernail instead. The image was so out of place that Craig had barely processed it before Tweek stopped himself, shoving his hand into his jacket pocket. "No. Never."
Nodding, Craig finished his cigarette and lit another with the smoldering tip. He wouldn't be returning to Italy either. He'd known for a long time that he'd leave one day—whether by ship or by throwing himself off the dock, it didn't matter much.
It didn't matter to Craig, anyway. He hadn't expected the admission would earn him a cuff on the ear and another lecture about hell from Father Tucker. As if he wasn't already damned. What difference did it make?
Enough of a difference, apparently, for Father Tucker to secure him a ticket out. But the end result was the same: To Italy, to anyone who'd ever known him, Craig Tucker might as well be dead.
Craig knew well enough, at least, that this wasn't the sort of thing to share with a stranger. He didn't understand why, but he'd lived 25 years navigating the strange things that made the rest of the world uncomfortable.
Instead, he offered, "I also will not go back."
Tweek made a small sound, his elbow accidentally brushing Craig's once more. Then he cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders. "You know… I was wondering if we might—"
A nearby shriek cut him off.
Craig tensed, the sound fracturing like glass beneath his skin. It took a moment for him to register the laughter. The excited babble of a child's voice in a language that might have been familiar, but too fast to follow.
By the time he turned around, a curious crowd was already gathering at the railing, pointing at something over the starboard side. Fathers lifted their children for a better view, small shoes drumming on the metal, the commotion attracting even more onlookers.
A cold hand caught Craig's wrist. "Don't," Tweek hissed, and it was only then that Craig realized he'd taken a step away from the wall. He didn't like crowds, but the part of his brain that kept him out of trouble tended to be drawn to them. There was safety in blending in, following the lead of those who understood unspoken rules in a way he never could.
He could trust himself, at least, with spoken instructions. If Tweek didn't want him to move, then he wouldn't move.
Tweek wasn't moving either. He'd gone stiff at Craig's side, wide eyes fixed on the crowd, his fingers locked around Craig's wrist like a vice. He looked more like the rattled man Craig had seen last night, a line stretched brittle, ready to break.
The crowd gasped, children squealed and clapped, kicking harder at the railing. Craig only meant to turn his head away to avoid blowing smoke in Tweek's face, but Tweek yanked him closer. "Stop it," he snapped, tight and severe. "We'll tip over."
"Tip over?" Craig looked at the crowd, then back at Tweek, the sheen of sweat highlighting the crease between his brows, the tight set of his jaw, the shallow hitch of his breathing. And he suddenly remembered the frayed, reedy sound of Tweek's voice saying 'godforsaken ship' and 'only unsinkable until it sinks'.
"Oh." It seemed impolite to point out that Tweek was afraid—if he was, he already knew. If he wasn't, he would be insulted.
"Too heavy for tipping," Craig started, and Tweek's expression tightened, a spasm wracking up his shoulders and through his neck like a current. "Uh. Not enough people." He opened his mouth to add that they were safe, that the ship wouldn't sink—couldn't sink, certainly not from this—then snapped it closed.
They weren't tipping, because Craig knew they weren't tipping—the way he always knew. The stone floor of the church in Genoa had a slight incline upon entering, then a decline, then a subtle but persistent unevenness like water frozen mid-motion. The Titanic was on an even keel, Craig could feel it as clearly as the wind in his hair, but if Tweek didn't believe the experts, what reason did he have to believe Craig?
If facts didn't help, what would?
Some people didn't want to be helped. One of the priests said that, a lifetime ago, when Craig was still small. He'd been speaking to another adult, shaking his head in the slow way that always seemed to prelude something terrible. Like putting the bullet between the eyes of a lame horse or a biting dog.
Maybe facts were as useless as the foreign words delicately etched into the Bible.
Craig moved, quick and sudden, and Tweek staggered after him by the shackle of his own grip. Tweek tugged back futilely, grabbing onto Craig's elbow with his free hand, shoes scuffing against the deck for traction. "I said stop it! Goddamn you—man—what the fuck—!"
The words cut off like a choked steam valve. Maybe when he realized they were heading toward the railing on the port side, away from the crowd and the noise and the weight.
"Balance," Craig murmured as they came to a stop, and Tweek looked between Craig and the crowd and back again, his hold on Craig's elbow loosening and falling away. His other hand continued to clutch Craig's wrist—warm now, clammy—but Craig wouldn't embarrass him by pointing it out.
Tweek let out a shaky breath through his nose, his lips pinched between his teeth. Tension still radiated from his skin, from the vibrating clamp of his fingers, like the final, straining cable mooring a ship in a storm.
Tweek cleared his throat. Squared his shoulders. It was becoming a pattern, one that meant he was one step back behind the gate. His lips flushed pink as he released them.
"I… apologize," Tweek started, strangled. "That was—"
"No."
Tweek's head jerked, and he looked up at Craig with an expression that might have been outrage, brows furrowed and eyes wild. "I beg your pardon?"
"This is better?" Craig asked. He offered Tweek a cigarette, and Tweek snatched it away as if Craig would change his mind.
"What, over here?" Tweek gestured around them with the unlit cigarette. He narrowed his eyes at the crowd across the deck as if they'd personally wronged him. They had, Craig supposed. "Yes. This is… agh. We could still—yes."
Craig kept the hand in Tweek's grasp very still, like he was a bird that had chosen Craig's shoulder as a safe place to perch. He retrieved his matchbox one-handed and pushed it open with his thumb, sliding a match out with two fingers. He dried his teeth with a quick pass of his wrist, then struck the match across the surface, the heat from the flame licking into his mouth and over his lips.
Tweek's next breath was more like a laugh, tight and quiet. He leaned in to light his cigarette as Craig held out the match.
"Aren't you full of surprises?" Tweek asked, and Craig didn't know how he was expected to answer.
"No," he decided, because nothing was surprising about lighting a match on any surface textured enough to do the job. He didn't always have a box handy.
The laugh that followed was a little lighter. Craig flicked the match overboard, watching it fall—down, down, down—vanishing before it hit the sparkling blue water. Craig could almost imagine that he saw the impact of it, a tiny splash, a drifting shadow.
Craig blinked his eyes rapidly, squinting down at the water.
"What is it?" Tweek peered cautiously over the rail, staying a solid step away from it. His grip on Craig's wrist tightened.
Before Craig could formulate a response, the shadow turned into a fin. A dolphin broke through the water, jumping alongside the ship. Two others surfaced nearby, a fourth bringing up the rear, and Tweek sucked in a breath through his teeth.
Lowering his voice to avoid drawing attention, Craig said, "Delfini. You see?"
Of course Tweek could see them; he was looking right at them, but he nodded anyway. "Yes," he whispered, and maybe it was strange to think that Craig could hear a smile in the shape of the word, but he thought so anyway. The tension was gone, at least.
"On the other side too, I think," Craig went on. "They stay close. It's easier."
"What's easier?"
A stray drop of sweat slid over the heel of Craig's palm, and it almost felt like the brush of a thumb, a fleeting tingle that left Craig's arms prickling.
"Uh." Craig felt his free hand rocking at the wrist again, the way it so often tended to do. At least Tweek wouldn't be staring at him, judging him for moving wrong.
The dolphins were more interesting.
"Swimming," Craig offered finally. "The ship carries them."
"Oh, I see." It didn't sound like feigned interest, but Craig couldn't always tell. He looked up to find Tweek already watching him, cheeks hollowing as he sucked on his cigarette, and Craig shoved his hand into his pocket. His fingers collided with the rosary, and he looped them through the beads, holding on to keep from moving.
Tweek opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down between them. It was only then that he seemed to realize he was still holding Craig's wrist, and his fingers uncurled slowly, almost carefully. The spot he'd held onto felt suddenly cold, too exposed, despite being hidden under the sleeve of Craig's jacket.
Craig still didn't move his arm. Just in case Tweek wanted to land on him once more.
"You know something about everything, don't you?" Tweek asked. It had been strange enough when Tweek called him smart the night before, but Craig had eventually sorted that under upperclass niceties that he didn't understand. It seemed like they were beyond niceties, but maybe they weren't.
"No. Only the things I like."
Tweek hummed, smiling down at the water. It felt like Craig had correctly answered a question he didn't recognize as a test, and the anxiety and the relief of it hit him all at once.
"Trains, ships, dolphins." Tweek counted them off on one hand, his thumb tapping against each of his fingers. "Match tricks, I suppose. What else do you like, my dear?"
Even though Craig had spoken more in the past twelve hours than he typically did in a week, he found himself talking again, working through the list of things he liked. And he found Tweek listening, cigarette balanced between his fingers, a soft smile on his lips.
And if, somewhere along the way, Tweek found his way onto that list, Craig knew well enough not to say so.