Chapter 1: First Look
Notes:
hey everyone!! welcome to the one and only charthur titanic au!! i hope its readable.. :'3 also - sorry for any grammar or language mistakes!! english aint my 1st language. i helped myself with google translator a bit but yall know how this shit works.. ANYWAY ENJOY ;33
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
April 10th, 1912. The spring sun cast its gentle rays across the bustling port. The air was filled with chatter and footsteps of a vast crowd gathered in anticipation. The long-awaited moment was drawing near. Towering above them all stood a massive four-funnelled ship — hailed as unsinkable — ready to shine on its first voyage. Its name was Titanic. The Amazing Titanic — largest steamship in the world, capable of carrying thousands on its decks.
Only minutes remained until the historic voyage would begin. But somehow, the crowd’s attention had shifted somewhere else. What now held their gaze was not the ship itself, but an exclusive automobile, gleaming with golden trim and piled high with luggage, rolling to a halt in the shadow of the towering vessel. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers as they craned their necks, eager to glimpse the faces about to emerge with the help of the chauffeur.
A dark, chocolate-brown hand reached out to accept the chauffeur’s offered assistance. With a practiced grace, the driver helped the figure out of the vehicle — and in that moment, the crowd’s eyes were blessed with pure beauty. Standing before them, surveying the surroundings with a hint of boredom, was a young man. Tall and well-built, his dark skin glowed in the sunlight, and his long, loose black hair danced calmly in the air. He wore an elegant shirt, the fabric clunging slightly to his muscles, perfectly showing every curve.
His name was Charles Smith — the son of the famous and wealthy writer, Joseph Smith, who stepped out of the car right after him, dressed in a prestigious black suit. A blonde-haired woman in a stunning dark blue gown followed closely behind — She was Mr. Smith’s wife, and Charles’s stepmother.
“So this is the unsinkable beauty, huh? Quite the sight, isn’t it?” - Said the greying man, turning to Charles as he adjusted his black hat.
Charles glanced at the massive ship with a look of visible disapproval. He turned his face toward his father.
“Not really. I don't get why is everyone so hyped about it.” - he replied in a calm tone, not waiting for an answer before speeding towards the ship’s entrance.
Joseph rolled his eyes with irritation as he turned to his wife, Anne.
“Always displeased… little brat” he said with smirk. Anne giggled softly at her husband and wrapped her arm around Mr. Smith’s. The two followed after Charles.
***
Meanwhile across the street from the noisy, bustling crowd stood a small, shabby pub. It looked like it had seen better days. At that exact moment—just ten minutes before the Titanic was set to depart—it wasn’t exactly packed. Infact, it was almost empty. Only three tables were occupied.
At one of them, four man sat, cigarettes and glasses with the cheapest alcohol in them infront of them. They were locked in a 2-on-2 poker duel—a battle of life and death, or so it felt. Sweat trickled down their tense faces as they calculated every possible scenario that could ruin their desperate plans for future.
Two of the men, both sun-tanned and jittery, were nervously chewing the insides of their cheeks. They had thrown their tickets to the Titanic into the pot. Tickets for the most famous at the moment voyage in the goddamn world, about to set sail any minute now.
“I can’t believe you bet our fucking tickets, you idiot." One of them whispered to his partner, voice low.
Opposite them, one of the other pair—a man with shoulder-length brown hair, a worn-out hat, and a striped shirt—was watching his partner closely, waiting for his next move. His name was John.
And who his partner was? A man with sandy-brown hair, piercing blue eyes that could talk you into hell itself, and a cigarette dangling lazily between his lips forming a smirk. He wore a black striped shirt and some old faded by now jeans. He was staring intensely at his cards now.
His name was Arthur. Arthur Morgan, the man who had nothing. No place to call home. No family. No roots. All he had in this world was his sketchbook, his cigs, and John—his best friend, the closest thing he had to a brother.
“Arthur… don’t fuck this up,” John muttered under his breath.
Arthur glanced up at him with a cocky grin.
"I’m all in” He said, tossing his last wad of cash onto the pile.
Adrenaline slammed into all of them like someone had threw the heaviest brick known to a man straight at their chests. It was time to reveal their cards.
“The moment of truth has arrived,” Arthur said, his voice carrying a dramatic flair. “Two of our lives is about to turn a full one-eighty. The rest…” He paused, taking a long drag from his cigarette, a sly grin playing on his lips. “They’ll be crawling back home with their heads down. John?” He glanced over at his friend, urging him to go first.
“Nothing,” John muttered, tossing his cards down, his face portraing slight of defeat.
Now it was Albert’s turn - one of the men from the opposing pair. Arthur gave him a nod, urging him to go on.
“Nothing either,” Albert said, revealing his losing hand. Then he looked towards his partner, Mickey, with a flicker of hope in his eyes.
Mickey flipped his cards.
“Two pair,” he said, laying them on the table, biting the inside of his cheek.
They were in the lead. Desperate, John stared wide-eyed at Arthur, panic written all over his face. Arthur’s expression had gone cold. He pulled the nearly burnt-out cigarette from between his lips and crushed it out in the ashtray as he sighed.
“John... ’m sorry,” Arthur said silently, lowering his head and closing his eyes.
“Arthur, don’t you even fuck with me—”
“ 'm sorry,” Arthur cut in, raising his gaze slowly, seriousness in his voice “But you won’t be seein' Hosea for a long time.”
John blinked, confusion all over his face. Hosea was his father figure, that for some reason had also labeled Arthur as his son.
“ 'Cause we’re sailin' to the goddamn America!” Arthur shouted, grinning like a madman. "Full house!" He slammed his cards on the table, taking all of the prize him and John had won.
John shot up from his chair, his face lighting up like sunrise. He literally jumped at Arthur, wrapping him in a fierce, joyful hug, shouting and jumping like a man reborn.
Arthur hugged him back just as hard, laughing, as the rest of the bar erupted into wild cheers and applause.
The two losers who just lost their chance to change their lives got into a full-blown argument—so ridiculous that John and Arthur couldn't help but laugh at the scene. The shouting match ended abruptly when Albert landed a punch square on Mickey’s face, sending him crashing to the ground. He walked away from the table, furious.
“Actually,” the bartender cut in with a sarcastic tone, not even looking up from the drinks he was preparing, “Titanic’s setting sail. In exactly five minutes.”
The two men froze. They snapped their heads toward the clock. Five minutes to noon. Five fucking minutes until the Titanic departed on its voyage. They looked at each other in horror.
“Shit. John, let’s go! We gotta fuckin' move!” Arthur practically screamed at his friend, who was now frantically scooping up the last of their coins off the table.
They bolted out of the bar, sprinting full speed through the crowd, shoving their way toward the gangway of the colossal ship.
“We’re the luckiest sons of bitches on this damn planet!” Arthur yelled, out of breath, laughing as he ran.
“We’re sailing to fucking America! We’re gonna be rich, filthy rich!” John laughed back, chasing close behind.
The boarding gate was already closing. Arthur and John barely made it in time.
“Wait! Hold up! We’re still here!” Arthur wheezed as he ran up to the young man who was about to shut the gangplank. He was gasping for air, fumbling to pull out their tickets.
The worker gave the tickets a quick look, then glanced up suspiciously at the two panting men.
“Did you pass the inspection zone?” he asked.
“Of course we did!” John blurted in adesperate tone. “Besides—”
“We don’t have lice, damn it! We’re Americans!” Arthur added, giving the guy a pleading look.
The young man looked them up and down, hesitated for a second, then waved them in with a sigh.
“Alright, get on board.”
The two men stormed onto the ship, overjoyed. Shoving their way through the packed corridors, they rushed to their cabin, dropped off their stuff, and without wasting a second, began exploring. First stop—the bow of the ship, where they waved like maniacs to the crowd below as the Titanic pulled away from the dock.
“I can’t believe this is happenin'!” Arthur shouted, grabbing John by the shoulders and shaking him
"I know, right?! It's fucking incredible." John laughed as he yelled back, taking in the incredible view from the deck.
Arthur and John stood there for another long moment, giggling and admiring the view of the vast, empty yet breathtaking ocean.
***
Charles stepped into the grand, opulent room. A first-class suite he was sharing with his father and his wife. The place gleamed with golden finishes, the furniture made of the finest, most expensive woods. It made him feel sick and overwhelmed.
He couldn’t deny that a life of wealth didn’t have its appeals. Living in luxury didn’t sound like the worst fate. And yet, he wasn’t happy. The weight of all the expectations and demands placed on him as the son of a famous writer made it all feel extremely disgusting. He just wanted to live like a normal eighteen year old—party, explore, enjoy life. But all of that had been taken from him the moment his father published his first damn book.
Charles glanced around the room. Despite all the overwhelming and unnecessary decorations, the space still felt empty, lifeless.
Then the servants walked in, carrying their luggage into the suite.
Charles reached into one of the bags, pulling out part of his art collection. He took out two paintings, and immediately spotted empty places in the room where they’d fit perfectly.
“What are you doing?” his father asked as he walked in, catching Charles positioning paintings in every corner of the room.
“I’m giving this place some life,” Charles replied flatly, his eyes fixed on one painting in particular he was holding in his hands.
“I don’t think it looks any better with this… pseudo-art,” the man said, raising a brow and surveying each painting his son had put up with a faint smirk.
“Looks like we have different opinions on what ‘pseudo-art’ is,” Charles muttered, irritated. “I like them. They’re full of emotions.”
“Well, at least they were cheap,” his father replied, walking over to a piece made by Picasso. “Glad you only admire artists with no damn future.”
Charles sighed in frustration and finished putting up the paintings.
After spending a while in the room, they left it to greet the rest of elite passengers.
Among them was the unsinkable Susan Grimshaw, a woman who had survived three separate shipwrecks while serving aboard ocean liners. Then there was Molly O'Shea, the daughter of one of Titanic’s main investors; Mary-Beth, the daughter of a highly respected American politician—an old acquaintance of Charles’s father, who, it seemed, had certain plans for both of them—and several other filthy bastards tied to politics and money, including Colm O’Driscoll and Angelo Bronte.
Charles felt like throwing up at the sight of all those faces. The company of the rich was suffocatingly fake. Everyone was kissing each other’s asses one moment, only to talk shit behind their backs five minutes later.
He forced a faint smile, greeting familiar and unfamiliar faces alongside his father, playing the polite puppet in a show he never wanted a role in.
***
Charles had been shoved into banquet by his father, right into the nest of arrogant assholes. They were seated around a grand round table. He didn’t want to be there. The entire atmosphere pressed down on him like a weight on his chest. He sat beside Mary-Beth, the girl his father desperately wanted to hook him up with.
She didn’t look thrilled either. They hadn’t talked much before, and now their fathers were the ones having conversations about theit so-called future relationship.
Charles had heard it all before—how perfect they were for each other—and he’d had enough of it.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need some fresh air,” he said, standing up without waiting for a response. His father, clearly irritated by his son’s behavior, shifted the conversation to money and politics.
Charles made his way to the ship’s bow, climbed up to the highest point, and leaned against the railing. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. With every breath, the suffocating pressure slowly began to disappear. His long hair danced softly in the breeze. He stood there for a while, admiring the view of the endless sea, unaware that the entire time—someone was watching him.
***
Arthur and John were sitting at the bow of the ship, right near its edge. They chatted cheerfully, laughter bubbling from their lips as they occasionally drew from their cigarettes. The salty breeze played with their hair, and the ocean stretched endlessly before them.
Then a not-too-tall, redhead man had approached them.
“Gentlemen, got a spare smoke?” he asked with a grin, his gaze bouncing between the two.
“Sure, take one,” Arthur replied with a smile, flipping open his cigarette pack and offering it to the man. The redhead took one and lit it with a flick of his lighter.
“Thanks. Name’s Sean,” he said, extending a friendly hand. John was the first to shake it.
“John,” he replied with a grin of his own.
“Arthur,” the other man added, accepting Sean’s handshake next.
Now the three of them sat together, chatting and laughing loudly, their voices carried away by the wind.
At some point, though, Arthur grew quiet. His attention had shifted, drawn by something — or rather, someone — who now graced his line of sight.
Up on the higher deck, by the railing, stood a dark-skinned man with jet-black hair. He was dressed in a white shirt and tailored suit pants. He looked... stunning. Handsome, yes, but more than that — beautiful in a way that made Arthur's breath hitch. There was something delicate about his features, almost feminine, and yet his body was sculpted, muscular — and that only made him more striking. Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off him.
Sean noticed the sudden change in Arthur’s demeanor and followed his gaze. A sly grin crept onto his face when he saw what Arthur was staring at.
“You’ve got your eye on Joseph Smith’s son? Don’t get your hopes up, man. He’s way outta your league,” Sean said with a laugh.
Arthur rolled his eyes at the comment, but didn’t argue. He did know Joseph Smith, and he would say that his books ain't all that. He knew he had no chances with someone like the son of such writer. That didn’t stop Arthur from staring, though. There was something about that man — something captivating.
And then it happened. The dark-haired man looked back at him with his deep, brown eyes.
Their eyes met.
Charles gazed at Arthur with a look of curiousity and confusion, while Arthur stared back with pure admiration.
For a few long seconds, they just looked at each other. To Arthur, it felt like minutes — time had stopped, suspended in that perfect, silent connection.
Until something ruined it.
A girl stepped into view — brown hair tied into a severe bun, draped in an opulent violet gown. She approached the man, unsure, and said something to him. After a moment, the two of them turned and disappeared into the interior of the ship.
And just like that, the spell was broken.
Arthur felt a strange mix of disappointment and frustration settle in his chest.
Who the hell was that man?
Notes:
so... was this even enjoyable in the slightest? i hope so.. idk if i will ever update this. have a nice day/night
Chapter 2: First Meeting
Summary:
TW: SUICIDE ATTEMPT!!
Arthur and Charles have their first proper conversation, even though it happens in a very stressful situation.
Notes:
hey so.. i kinda decided to update this. this chapter is a bit tough for our boy charles.. and stressful for arthur! enjoy:3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Charles sat stiffly at the lavish dinner banquet, once again surrounded by the same bunch of fake, sickening faces. By his side, once again, was Mary-Beth—only half-present—scribbling something secretly into a small notebook, clearly uninterested in the circus around her. Charles noticed her handwriting was neat. Strangely beautiful, actually.
As he sat there, his thoughts began to drift. This entire voyage, the sea of strangers—some who left marks on his mind...
And him.
That handsome, modestly dressed young man with light brown hair, almost golden in the right light, the one Charles had caught staring at him before. For some reasons he couldn’t name, this man has stuck with him. Clung to his thoughts. The thoughts he shouldn't have. It was wrong. It couldnt be that way.
Charles’s fate had always been laid out clear for him. He was forced to marry a young, wealthy woman—most likely the daughter of some pompous official and have bunch of kids. There was no other path, not for someone like him. Not while he was his father’s little puppet.
A sharp tapping of a spoon against a glass pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up. His father stood tall at his seat, a smug glint in his eye.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the man bellowed. “After much discussion and planning, I am thrilled to announce the engagement of my son, Charles, and Mary-Beth, daughter of the esteemed Mr. Edward!”
He gestured toward the two teenagers, and the room erupted into applause. Charles froze.
No. No, this had to be a joke. A sick, twisted joke.
But the thundering applause around him made it all too real.
He looked at Mary-Beth. She looked just as horrified—maybe even more. Her eyes glistened, wide and stunned.
“Excuse me?!” they both blurted out at the same time.
“You heard me,” his father grinned, as if he’d won some kind of fucked-up prize. “Everything’s arranged! You’ll be wed as soon as we’re back on land.”
“You must be kidding me. I won't agree to this!” Charles shouted, rage bubbling under his skin.
The elder man’s face twisted into something cold and venomous.
“You don’t get a say in this, boy. The sooner you accept that, the less it'll hurt,” he hissed under his breath—only Charles and a few unfortunate souls nearby heard it.
“Dad—” Mary-Beth tried, voice shaking, tears threatening to spill.
Her father shot her a look. One glare, sharp as a blade, was enough to silence her completely.
Charles felt faint. His chest heaved. All the rage, confusion, and disgust swelled inside him like a violent tide. He was going to explode. He was going to shatter.
“I need to leave. Excuse me,” he muttered, hand covering his mouth, feeling like he was about to puke. He rushed out of the grand hall filled to the brim with rich bastards, and once out of sight—he ran. He didn't even know where to. He just ran.
Eventually, he found himself back at the ship’s bow, once again. He nearly slammed into the railing. His hands gripped the cold metal as he gasped for air—half from the sprint, half from the sheer wave of disguist still washing over him.
And that’s when he saw it—the very tip of the bow, wrapped in steel railings, seemingly calling to him.
It hit him then. Everything in his life had led to this moment.
He couldn’t remember the last time he felt joy. When had he not felt suffocated by pressure and expectations. And so, he made his decision.
He would end it here, tonight.
No more pressure. No more decisions made for him. No more shouting. No more lies.
Step by step, he climbed down from the higher observation point and approached the very end of the bow. Slowly, deliberately, he placed one foot on the metal railing, then swung the other over.
Now he stood, suspended above the deep, dark ocean—waiting for gravity to take over.
A flicker of doubt passed through him.
Just one move. One tiny jump. That’s all it would take. All he’d been too cowardly to do before, now right there within reach.
And then— he heard a voice.
A voice from behind him.
A voice of salvation.
A voice that would soon change everything.
A voice that soon would help him see the good parts of life he never got to see before.
***
Arthur laid alone on one of the benches at the bow of the Titanic, a cigarette lazily hanging from his lips, eyes fixed on the starry sky as he reflected on the events of the day. Just this morning, he was wondering which corner of Britain he’d find himself waking up in—and now here he was, aboard the largest ship in the world. Life had a twisted sense of humor, didn’t it?
His thoughts drifted back to the man from earlier. For some strange reason, he couldn't get him out of his head. There was something about him—something that tugged at Arthur in a way he wasn’t entirely comfortable admitting.
Then suddenly, something—or rather someone—shot past him in a blur. Startled, Arthur sat up abruptly, eyes wide, only to see the very same man who had haunted his thoughts. It was almost as if thinking about him had summoned him here.
But there was something deeply unsettling in the way the man moved. He looked... shattered. Arthur didn’t call out, didn’t move just yet. Instead, he stayed quiet, watching carefully, waiting.
And then, the man started walking slowly, deliberately, toward the very edge of the ship. Arthur, now concerned, kept his eyes on him. He watched as the man climbed onto the railing.
Arthur sprang to his feet, moving quickly but quietly, trying not to startle him. The man stood precariously, teetering above the cold, dark ocean below.
He was hesitating—that much was clear. His body language betrayed uncertainty. Arthur’s job now was to make sure that hesitation turned into retreat.
“Don’t do it,” Arthur said gently, his voice calm as he stood behind the man.
The man flinched at the sound, freezing in place, not even turning to see who had spoken.
“Don’t come any closer!” he snapped, whipping his head around when he heard Arthur take another step. He recognized him. The same man who was staring at him earlier that day.
Arthur stopped immediately and raised his hands in surrender. He flicked the cigarette overboard, the motion so subtle it seemed accidental, and inched closer.
“Come down. You don’t want to do this,” Arthur said, his tone soft, his eyes locked on the dark-haired man now hanging between life and death.
“What the hell do you know about what I want?” the man snapped, eyes cast downward. “Just walk away. Pretend you didn’t see me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Arthur replied. “I’m involved now. Come on—just give me your hand. I’ll pull you up.”
“No! I said stay back!” the man—Charles—yelled, voice sharp with panic.
Arthur stared at him steadily.
“Like I said, I’m involved now.” He emptied his pockets, letting the contents fall to the floor. “Which means if you jump—I’m comin' in after you.”
“What? Are you crazy?” Charles blinked in disbelief. “You’ll die.”
“Wouldn’t be the most pleasant way to go, I’ll give you that,” Arthur said, voice still eerily composed. “That water’s fuckin' cold.”
Charles exhaled shakily, biting the inside of his cheek. He stared down, hesitating even more.
“How cold exactly?” he asked after a pause, glancing at Arthur again.
Arthur could tell he was starting to get through to him.
“Freezin'. Just a few degrees above zero,” Arthur replied. “I grew up in places that got brutal winters. Used to go ice fishing with my dad. Ice fishing is when—”
“I know what ice fishing is!” Charles snapped, irritated.
“Shit. My apologies, Mister,” Arthur smirked. “You didn’t exactly look like the rugged outdoorsy type.” He leaned casually against the railing, peering down. “Anyway, once I fell through the ice. Straight into that kind of water. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. There’s no describin' it. Your whole body shuts down. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you feel is that all-consumin' , godawful pain.”
Charles stared at him, visibly shaken. Doubt crept into his face.
“I don’t want to go through that again. But I will,” Arthur said, locking eyes with him.
Charles’s face twisted with fear and uncertainty. Arthur knew he had him.
“You’re insane,” Charles muttered, breathing heavily.
“You wouldn’t be the first to say it.” Arthur grinned, biting his lip. “Now give me your hand. You don’t want to do this.”
Arthur extended his hand, eyes pleading.
Charles hesitated—badly. Coming down meant facing the cruel, brutal reality he had tried to escape. The same miserable life that had driven him up here in the first place. But something in Arthur’s presence felt real. Safe. Honest.
Finally, Charles reached out, gripping Arthur’s hand. He turned slightly on the railing so they were face to face. Up close, he could really see him. Those piercing blue eyes. Freckles scattered across his face. His hair, a bit too long, just added to his charm.
Arthur studied him, too. Then smiled.
“I’m Arthur Morgan,” he said quietly, eyes locked with Charles’s.
“Charles… Charles Smith,” he replied in a whisper.
“Your father’s books are bloody mediocre,” Arthur said, recalling a title he’d read.
Charles chuckled softly, noding.
“All right, nice n' easy,” Arthur said, keeping a firm grip on his hand as he guided Charles back toward the deck. Charles began to step over.
Then, suddenly—his polished shoes betrayed him.
“Ah!” Charles gasped, slipping. In a blink, he was dangling over the vast black sea. “Fuck! Help me! Pull me up!” he screamed, thrashing one hand upward toward the rail.
Arthur was the only thing keeping him from plummeting into the freezing void.
“Fuck!” Arthur shouted, tightening his grip. “I gotchu'!”
Charles managed to grab the railing, trying to haul himself up.
But his hand slipped.
Once again, he dangled. And once again, Arthur was his only lifeline.
“Aaah! Fuck! Help me!” Charles yelled, voice cracking.
“You’ve got to push yourself up, Charles! On my mark!” Arthur shouted, his muscles straining. “One, two, THREE!”
Charles shoved himself upward, and Arthur pulled with everything he had.
They both collapsed onto the deck, Arthur sprawled on top of Charles. Gasping for air, they stared at each other.
“You’re okay now,” Arthur said gently, offering a soft smile.
Suddenly, footsteps thundered toward them. Both turned their heads.
Two security guards stood above them, faces frozen in shock.
“Get off him, you pervert!” one of them barked, lunging for Arthur. He grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him up.
“Hey! Guys, wait! This is a huge misunderstandin'!” Arthur shouted, clearly panicked.
“Bullshit! You’re explaining this to this poor boy’s parents!” the guard snapped, slapping a pair of cuffs on Arthur’s wrists.
***
A Hit. Arthur’s cheek kinda stung and throbbed from the slap delivered by that rich, old, bastard. The man was now kneeling in front of Charles' Father, held down by a bodyguard. He looked up at him, his pale blue eyes full of silent defiance. Joseph grabbed him by the collar.
“What the hell were you trying to do to my son, you creep? Speak!” The man snarled.
“Dad, stop,” Charles said. Just moments ago, he’d been sitting between a uniformed officer and his mother—now he was standing beside his father. He grabbed his arm. “That’s not what happened. It was just an accident. A stupid misunderstanding.” Charles held his father’s hand mid-air. The man furrowed his brows, giving his son a questioning look. “I… I slipped when I leaned over to check out… y’know…”
“The bolts?” his father asked, still scrutinizing him.
“Yeah. Exactly. I just got curious about the ship’s construction. I leaned too far over the ocean, and Mr. Morgan here saved me. Nearly fell in himself.” Charles spoke with a look of earnest honesty on his face. Arthur realized the guy was actually a pretty good liar.
“Is that true?” the guard holding Arthur asked, eyes sharp.
Arthur hesitated for a second, then glanced at Charles. The boy shot him a pointed look that screamed just go with it.
“Yeah… more or less what happened.” Arthur muttered, looking at Charles’ father. “Sorry it all came off a bit… weird.”
“So the boy is a hero! Congrats, son!” the officer beamed, giving Arthur a pat on the back. “Let him go.” The cuffs came off, and Arthur stood, rubbing his wrists. He glanced at Charles, who smiled softly at him. Arthur gave a crooked smile back.
Joseph stepped forward and grabbed Charles by the shoulders.
“Mr. Smith?” the officer addressed the rich man. “Maybe a little something for the boy?”
Joseph didn’t look thrilled by the suggestion. He forced a tight smile, eyebrows twitching in annoyance.
“Sure… Ten should be enough.” Joseph turned to his lapdog Bill, who always hovered near like a mutt waiting for scraps. It was a signal—hand over the cash.
“No ne—” Arthur began, hearing about the money. He wasn’t a greedy bastard. At least not that kind. He hadn’t saved Charles for some reward.
“Pff…” Charles let out a dry, sarcastic snort, cutting him off. Joseph shot his son a glare. “That’s the price of saving your only son now, huh, Dad?” Charles said, voice laced with disdain.
Joseph felt a stab of humiliation. Not because the amount wasn’t generous enough—but because his own son had the balls to call him out in front of a crowd. The old man bit his lip, pensive. Then turned to Arthur, who was stuffing his things back into his coat.
“Maybe you’d like to come over tomorrow for dinner? Share your version of this… noble act,” Joseph said, sarcasm barely veiled.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, looking between Charles and his father. Charles gave a subtle nod, still smiling.
“Sure... Count me in.” Arthur replied, locking eyes with the older man.
“Fantastic. Settled then,” the rich prick said with a mocking tone, grabbing his son by the shoulder and leading him back toward the first-class quarters. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Morgan.”
Charles turned his head and gave Arthur a small, shy wave. Arthur waved back with a grin.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be fucking interesting…” Joseph muttered to Bill, amused. Charles shot him a pissed look but didn’t say anything. The three men vanished into the hallway.
Meanwhile, Arthur made his way back to his cabin, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He pushed the door open and saw John sprawled on the bed, scribbling in a notebook. The man looked up, studying Arthur.
“You look stupidly happy. You got laid or something?” John winked.
Arthur kicked him in the thigh as he climbed onto the top bunk—the one he’d won fair and square in a very mature game of rock-paper-scissors.
“Shut the hell up. I had a weird and stressful night. And all I wanted was to relax and get a goddamn smoke,” Arthur muttered, staring at the ceiling.
“Oh yeah? Do tell,” John put his notebook aside and peeked up toward Arthur.
“Nah.. Tomorrow. I’m too wiped. I’m goin' to sleep,” Arthur grumbled, turning to his side and closing his eyes.
“Well fuck you then, Arthur. And go wash up, you filthy bastard. Javier and Lenny will say you stink,” John said, referring to their bunkmates who were currently out and grabbing his notebook again.
“Tough shit.” Arthur replied, not even trying to stay awake. He was out cold in seconds, plunging into deep sleep.
Notes:
lmk whatu think guys!! kudos are appreciated ;33
Chapter 3: First Laughs
Summary:
Arthur meets the people Charles is surrounded by in a proper way.
Notes:
haiiii heres an update!! here i tried to focus on building charthurs relationship. so sorry if anything is really ooc, i might have messed up.. ANYWAYY enjoy:33
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next day, after a blissfully restful night, Arthur decided to go for a stroll around the ship. With a sketchbook in hand and a spring in his step, he somehow ended up in the first-class section — totally by accident, of course. It wasn’t like he was deliberately looking for Charles or anything.
From a distance, he spotted those long black locks tied into a high ponytail today, with a few loose strands falling across his face. He looked stunning. Arthur couldn't stop staring.
Casually, eyes darting from side to side like he had every reason to be there, Arthur slowly approached him. Once he was close enough that there was no way Charles wouldn’t notice him, he put on a little show.
“Oh my God, Charles! I totally didn’t expect to see ya here, in this part of the ship meant for the elite that I shouldn't be in. What a coincidence!” Arthur exclaimed with mock shock, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Charles raised a brow with a grin and let out a quiet chuckle at Arthur’s poor acting. He rolled his eyes but played along.
“A truly unexpected encounter, Mr. Morgan.” He smiled broadly at the slightly taller man.
Arthur laughed, taking in the sight of him. That’s when he noticed a small bandage on Charles’ cheekbone.
“What happened to your cheek? I don’t remember you havin' that yesterday… though maybe I was too stressed to notice.” Arthur furrowed his brows and put on a thoughtful look.
Charles chuckled softly at the face he was making.
“No, I didn’t have it yesterday. It… happened after I went back to my room. Let’s just say I got a little flak for my earlier behavior.” Charles replied, a little embarrassed.
Arthur looked concerned, his eyes flicking to the bandage. Charles suddenly felt a bit self-conscious. He got used to being punished for something his father didn't like. What he wasn't used to is someone being concerned about it.
“It’s fine, really. Doesn’t even hurt anymore.” Charles said, gently touching the covered spot.
Arthur nodded and quickly changed the subject.
***
“So what exactly did you get flak for?” Arthur asked, clearly curious. The two men were now strolling slowly across the deck, after having a little chat.
Charles went quiet for a moment.
“For the reason we ended up in that mess yesterday,” he said, eyes on the ground.
“Yeah, I figured that much,” Arthur replied, stopping in place. “But I meant… what really shook you 'bout it?”
Charles stopped too. After a short sigh, he looked up at Arthur.
“My father wants me to marry Edward Gaskill’s daughter,” Charles admitted, eyes back on the floor. “I… I kind of expected it. I don’t know why it hit me so hard.” He paused. “I really don’t want to. Mary-Beth is a sweet girl, but… I don’t like her that way. I never will.”
Arthur listened closely. He felt sympathy for Charles — the guy had probably been under this kind of pressure his whole life.
“Then runaway,” Arthur said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Charles looked at him, shocked. He frowned, unsure if he’d heard that right. Silence fell between them as they stared at each other.
“What?” Charles asked with a hint of laughter in his voice. He couldn’t be serious… right?
“Run away. From all of it,” Arthur repeated.
“You’re insane. That wouldn’t work. You think the police wouldn’t find me within a couple hours? Keep in mind who my father is.” Charles said, leaning on the railing, gazing out at the ocean.
“Worth a shot, isn’t it? Just tell the old man you’re goin' to town, and the next day you’re halfway across the country. Or another country.” Arthur leaned next to him, watching Charles with a sly smile.
Charles sighed.
“I don’t know what kind of fantasy world you live in, but your view of the world annoys the hell out of me, Mr. Morgan,” Charles said, eyeing him.
Arthur laughed.
“It’s Arthur. Just Arthur.”
“Doesn’t matter, "Just Arthur" Go away.” Charles gave him a playful shove, not meaning a word of it.
Arthur caught the sarcasm and let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Ehh… always gettin' chased off. What can you do?” he smiled.
Charles glanced him over and his eyes caught the notebook in Arthur’s hand.
“What’s that?” he asked, changing the subject.
“A sketchbook,” Arthur replied with a smug grin, noticing the surprise on Charles’ face.
“You draw?” Charles asked, genuinely surprised. Arthur didn’t exactly look like the artsy type — more like the kind of guy who’d write weird lyrics about his teenage heartbreak in a smoky bar.
“Yup,” Arthur said proudly, handing the book to him.
Charles took it hesitantly and opened it.
Inside were… genuinely impressive sketches. Mostly animals and architecture, but a few portraits too. And then—
“Wow… this is…” Charles mumbled awkwardly as he landed on a sketch of a naked woman sitting on the floor.
Arthur laughed at his reaction.
“That’s from France. Her name was Mary Linton,” he said, glancing at the drawing.
“France?” Charles asked. “You sure travel alot for a begg—” He cut himself off mid-word, looking at Arthur with a guilty expression.
“Beggar. You can say it.” Arthur chuckled. “Got no home to go back to, so I just drift around. Won my Titanic ticket in a poker game. Me and a buddy, John.” He laughed at the memory. Charles laughed too, flipping through more pages.
Eventually, he came to a portrait of a woman. This one wasn’t naked — young, modest, and visibly heartbroken. Something about her struck Charles deeply.
“You know her?” he asked.
Arthur nodded.
“That’s Sadie. I met her with John at a bar. Tough woman. Her husband died and she still hangs out there. They used to go there together.” Arthur’s voice carried a hint of sadness. “I really liked her.”
Charles listened intently. There was something tragic about Sadie’s story. She seemed like the kind of woman who loved deeply.
He kept flipping through until—yep. A sketch of a naked man.
“Oh… uh…” Charles mumbled awkwardly, flustered even more than before.
Arthur laughed again, noticing the faint blush on his cheeks.
“Bit of experimenting, y’know? Life’s too short to limit yourself.” He grinned.
Charles chuckled. That sketch, and Arthur’s carefree response, gave him a strange sense of comfort. Relief, maybe? He couldn’t quite place it, but it was… good.
“You’ve got real talent, Arthur,” Charles said, handing back the sketchbook.
Arthur nodded with a proud smile. He wasn’t shy about his art — he knew he was good.
“Thanks.”
The two men stood there a while longer, chatting, laughing, sharing the kind of peace that didn’t come often.
But, of course, that peace didn’t last.
A small group of women appeared, led by none other than Charles’ stepmother, Susan Grimshaw, flanked by upper-class elites whose names Charles barely remembered and Arthur never knew.
“There you are, Charles. Good afternoon, Mr. Morgan,” the woman said cheerfully. Arthur gave her a polite nod and a smile.
“Come along now, time to prepare for dinner,” she said, addressing Charles.
Charles nodded and turned to Arthur.
“See you around, Mr. Morgan.” Arthur smiled warmly as Charles said. There it was again — back to "Mr".
"See ya." Said Arthur quietly.
The group left… except for one old woman.
“You have any idea what you’re getting yourself into, Son?” Susan Grimshaw asked, eyeing Arthur with a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“No, ma’am,” Arthur replied, grinning ear to ear.
“You’re stepping into a nest of vipers. These people will judge your every step. What will you wear?” she asked, giving him a full once-over.
Arthur struck an awkward pose, showing off his outfit for the dinner — the exact one he had on now, of course.
Susan sighed and took his arm.
“Come. I’ll find you something from my son’s wardrobe.”
Arthur wanted to protest, but he was immediately pulled by the older women.
Together, they disappeared and snuck into her room unnoticed.
***
Charles was perched on a tall stool, dressed in a black shirt under a burgundy blazer, paired with black slacks. One of the maids was just finishing braiding his hair into a long, slightly messy plait. His stepmother stood nearby, her expression warm as she watched the final touches being made.
When all three — the maid, Charles, and his mother — were satisfied with the result, Charles stood and offered his arm to his mother. Together, they left the room and entered the main hall, already buzzing with high society’s finest.
Charles’s eyes scanned the crowd, seeking a certain shimmering shade of light brown hair. He greeted people with a forced smile, his mind clearly elsewhere.
“Oh, there you are!” a male voice called from behind. They turned to see Charles’s father standing with Mary-Beth and her parents. The girl looked both embarrassed and dispirited. “Come now, darling,” the man said to his wife, tugging her away from Charles’s side. Charles shot him a look full of irritation.
Mary-Beth’s father gave her a soft but unmistakable nudge in Charles’s direction. The dark-haired boy politely extended his hand. She hesitated but eventually took it — now it was Charles who was officially paired with her.
It was all perfectly orchestrated. Charles knew these meetings and interactions with Mary-Beth were inevitable. But the idea of marrying her made his chest tighten with dread and resistance.
The adults drifted away, leaving the two teens alone. Charles felt tense — and he could tell Mary-Beth felt the same.
“You alright, Mary-Beth?” Charles asked gently after a while, trying to start a conversation. The girl looked at him.
“Not really. I hate this whole setup,” she said with a soft sigh.
“Me too… Don’t you think it’s messed up? That every inch of our lives is controlled by someone else?” he asked, subtly tugging her forward so they could begin walking through the hall.
“It is insane. No offense, Charles, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.. like you like this,” she admitted softly.
Charles let out a quiet chuckle.
“Don’t worry about it… I feel the same way.” Mary-Beth giggled quietly, visibly loosening up. They had never talked this much before, and Charles was surprised at how oddly comfortable she was to be around.
“Is it because… you like someone else?” she asked hesitantly, unsure how far she could go with him.
“Not exactly. I don’t have anyone,” Charles replied in the calmest tone he could manage, noticing her slight unease. “What about you?”
“I… yeah, actually. That’s why. I have a boyfriend, but my parents won’t accept him because he’s not part of the elite.” Her face fell. “Kieran is a wonderful person. So warm and kind… but to them, he’s a nobody because he doesn’t have a doctor for a mother or a politician for a father.”
Charles felt a pang of sadness himself. He understood all too well. He knew the pain she was describing, and damn, he got it.
“That’s awful. Our parents are cruel,” Charles muttered.
“They are.” Mary-Beth responded, her tone heavy.
She seemed to grow more gloomy by the second, and Charles didn’t really know how to handle it. They strolled in silence across the vast, gilded hall. Still, Charles kept an eye out — for just one person.
He noticed a strikingly handsome man standing beside Miss Grimshaw, dressed in an extravagant suit. He looked oddly familiar…
And then it hit him.
His eyes widened in disbelief, a flush creeping up his neck. That gorgeous bastard wasn’t just any man — it was him. Arthur Morgan.
The very same Arthur Morgan who had won his third-class ticket on this ship in a last-minute poker game, was now dressed like he belonged among dukes and lords with his hair neatly styled and face freshly shaved.
Charles stared. He couldn’t look away. It was like someone painted him into reality — he looked divine.
“Charles?” Mary-Beth’s voice pulled him out of his trance. She followed his gaze and spotted Arthur, confused. Then she slowly turned to Charles with a knowing smirk as realization hit her.
Charles bit his lip. She giggled quietly, clearly amused, but said nothing. Her mood visibly improved, and she tugged Charles gently toward Arthur.
“Good evening, Miss Grimshaw,” Mary-Beth said sweetly as she and Charles approached the pair.
The attention of the older duo shifted to the teens. Arthur’s expression lit up the moment he saw Charles.
“Good evening,” Grimshaw replied with a polite smile.
“Charles. Hey,” Arthur greeted him wiyh a smile. Charles gave a sheepish wave a little awkwardly. The brunette turned to Mary-Beth. “Arthur Morgan,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to it.
“Mary-Beth Gaskill,” she replied with a polite nod. “Charles and I were just heading to the dining hall. Would you care to join us?”
Arthur glanced at Susan Grimshaw, waiting for her call.
“Sure,” she answered curtly.
The four of them walked on, paired off. But Mary-Beth, quick to notice the spark between Charles and Arthur, had an idea.
“Miss Grimshaw! I think it would be proper to greet Miss Smith. Every single lady is there now. Shall we go together?” she asked, slipping her arm into Susan’s and breaking away from Charles. He looked at her in surprise but didn’t protest.
Susan looked briefly at Arthur, unsure. She didn’t trust that he’d survive in this vicious crowd alone. But finally, she let go of his arm and adjusted her dress.
“Let’s go then,” she said with mild displeasure. She didn’t enjoy mingling with all these pompous women. Most of them seemed to hate her anyway. Still, she followed Mary-Beth, leaving the boys behind.
Arthur grinned and stepped closer to Charles.
“So? What do ya think? Suits me?” he asked sarcastically, spinning slowly to show off his look.
Charles chuckled under his breath and rolled his eyes.
“You look… okay,” he said shortly, glancing at the man.
“Damn. That’s so generous of you, Mister Smith.” Arthur rolled his eyes with a grin and crossed his arms.
Charles smiled and tilted his head toward the dining room. A silent suggestion to keep walking.
“Where the hell did you get those clothes anyway? Last I checked, you won your ticket with your last money while playing poker,” Charles asked, struggling to keep a straight face.
Arthur laughed at the mention.
“Miss Grimshaw’s a good soul. Gave me her son’s old clothes to help me blend in,” he said, glancing across the room to wherw Susan now stood among a group of girls in extravagant gowns.
Charles smiled and nodded. He knew Susan was genuinely good-hearted. He never understood why the rest of these rich fucks looked down on her.
“You nervous?” Charles suddenly asked. Arthur blinked and turned to look at him, confused.
“Should I be?” he replied.
“Uh, yeah. You’re in the most toxic, pretentious gathering known to mankind,” Charles said with sarcasm. Arthur snorted.
“I’m well aware. But no matter what I do, I won’t change how they see me. All I can do is present myself well to the few who don’t know who i am yet. And that’s exactly what I intend to do,” Arthur said, flashing him a smile. Charles was impressed by his chill.
“You’re a strange man,” Charles muttered, picking up the pace. Arthur laughed and quickened his step to match.
***
A grand table. Dozens of lavishly dressed people. Tons of food. Arthur was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of shit happening around him. His brain was fried trying to decide where to look.
He sat at the table with Susan by his side, feeling a little awkward, though doing a decent job not showing it. Not so far from him sat Charles — once again next to Mary-Beth. For some reason, Arthur felt bothered about that.
“Well if it isn't Mr Morgan!" Charles’s father said sarcastically, snapping Arthur out of his daze. The man had just taken a seat with his wife and Mary-Beth’s parents. “I must say, your presence surprises me. Even more so, your attire. Almost like a gentleman,” Joseph sneered, squinting with mock approval.
Now everyone at the table had their eyes on Arthur. He adjusted his posture slightly, glancing at each face one by one.
“Oh! Almost forgot. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Mr. Arthur Morgan. Helped my son out yesterday. He is a Third-class passenger,” Joseph added, gesturing toward Arthur like he was showing off a pet. The young man gave an awkward smile and a slight nod. Of course, the most important thing was already mentioned - social status.
“So, Mr. Morgan… how are the cabins down there in steerage? I’ve heard they’re not too bad,” chimed in Bill — Joseph’s lapdog, seated right beside him. Charles frowned at that. He didn't like Bill and never understood what the hell his father saw in him.
Arthur pressed his lips into a thin line, then replied with a smile.
“They're wonderful, sir. No rats. Well, maybe except for my roomies” he said coolly, prompting a burst of laughter from everyone at the table — everyone except the assholes trying to ruin his evening. Charles gave him a grin. Joseph, however, seemed visibly annoyed.
“Tell us, Mr. Morgan… where exactly do you live?” Joseph poked again, chewing on a piece of bread with caviar like a smug bastard. Charles wanted to crawl under the table from shame. He already knew he’d have to apologize for this whole shitshow of a dinner.
“Currently? The RMS Titanic,” Arthur replied calmly, grabbing a slice of bread. “Once we dock in New York, I suppose I’ll go wherever the wind takes me. I’m happy anywhere, as long as I’ve got a pencil, clean paper, and a pack of cigs,” he added with a smile. Most of the table nodded along, seemingly intrigued. Arthur couldn’t tell if these rich folks were just master manipulators, but oddly enough, it felt like some of them were treating him… normally. Maybe not particulary equally, but Arthur felt like his presence didn't bother most of them.
“Mr. Morgan is quite the talented artist,” Charles interjected, looking his way. “I’ve seen some of his work from all over the world. It’s genuinely impressive.” He winked at him. A few people around the table raised their eyebrows in pleasant surprise.
“Well… Charles has an unusual view on what constitutes art. No offense, Mr. Morgan,” Joseph added with a fake smile. Deep down, Arthur knew it was meant to be an insult — but it didn’t land. He just shook his head, grinning.
“And where do you find the funds to afford all these travels?” Anne, Charles’s stepmother, asked with polite curiosity — or maybe it was fake as hell. Arthur couldn’t be sure. He had thought she wasn’t that bad, but this was the elite after all. Everyone here was fake to the bones. Except for the ones who never wanted to belong here in the first place.
“I have insane luck, ma’am. Won my ticket to this fine cruise in a poker game,” Arthur said proudly. Joseph looked scandalized — like Arthur had just whipped it out on the table. But the other men? They lit up at the mention of gambling.
“Fantastic! Life is a gamble!” one of the wealthy men clapped, clearly thrilled. Arthur remembered hearing about him from Charles — it was Swanson. Joseph, meanwhile, looked ready to explode at how well Arthur was being received.
“And doesn’t that kind of life wear you down? No roots, no home?." Joseph asked once again. Arthur raised an eyebrow. Charles looked like he was about to melt from embarrassment or punch his own Father — maybe even both.
“Not at all. That’s my idea of freedom. I mean.. I like to not know what's comin' next. Who I’ll meet. What’ll happen.” Arthur made eye contact with Charles, who looked at him like he’d just seen a saint. “Yesterday I slept under a bridge. Today I’m sittin' here and drinkin' champagne with you fine folks.” Smooth as hell. Joseph looked shaken. His jabs weren’t working. He looked devasted and his ego was definitely hurt. Meanwhile, the rest of the table raised their glasses and toasted with Arthur.
***
The rest of the dinner passed.. uneventfully. And boring as hell. Arthur realized elite conversation was painfully predictable — work, money, more work, politics, more money, and yet more damn work. That’s all he remembered. Oh, and Miss Grimshaw’s jokes — which had everyone forcing laughter through gritted teeth.
Arthur was done. Tapped out for the evening. He thought about sneaking away, but he had one last thing to do with Charles. He just needed the right moment.
“Gentlemen, join me for some brandy,” Swanson said, standing and gesturing to the others. Arthur gave Charles a questioning look.
“Brandy in the smoking room. Politics, money, and massive male egos,” Charles whispered. Arthur chuckled softly.
“Sounds like I’d fit right in,” he said sarcastically. Charles rolled his eyes with a smile.
The men started heading off, and Arthur stood up from the table.
“You joining us, Mr. Morgan?” Swanson asked.
“Nah, thanks. I’ve gotta shove off,” Arthur replied with a smile. Swanson nodded and moved on with the rest of them.
“Probably for the best. Politics ain't really your thing, huh Morgan?” Joseph muttered with that smug shit-eating grin. Arthur gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Anyway, its nice that you joined us today." He said and walked away with Bill by his side. Arthur was pretty sure he didn't mean it
He exhaled and turned to Charles, approaching him with a smile.
“You leaving already?” Charles asked, clearly disappointed.
“Time for the poor bastard to get back to his side of ship,” Arthur joked. Charles giggled, standing up. Arthur extended his hand — Charles took it, and the man pulled him in for a brief one-armed hug. Charles flinched at first, but leaned into it quickly. Then Arthur slipped something into Charles’s hand, locking eyes with him meaningfully.
“See ya tomorrow, Charles,” he said with a grin. And then he left.
Charles watched him walk away, eyes trailing after Arthur’s figure as it disappeared into the polished crowd. His fingers closed around the small folded note Arthur had slipped into his hand moments before. He felt disoriented — like the whole evening had spun slightly off its axis — but goddamn, was he curious.
Arthur had impressed him tonight. More than that — something about him pulled Charles in like gravity. And, for better or worse, Charles found it deeply intoxicating.
He glanced around to make sure no one was paying too much attention to him — the last thing he needed was more of his father’s bullshit — and carefully unfolded the note in his palm.
It was just one line. A question, scrawled in quick, rough handwriting.
"meet me by the stairs?”
Notes:
KUDOS ARE APPRECIATED AS ALWAYS, LMK WHATCHU THINKKK
Chapter 4: First Dance
Summary:
Arthur shows Charles what a real party feels like.
TW: Child Abuse
Notes:
hi guys!! took me long enough to update this, right? not gonna lie, i forgot about existence of this work. but here i am with an update!! be aware od the TW i put in summary. enjoy!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Charles moved slowly towards the stairs, pretending he was just strolling around the hall with no particular destination in mind. He had to stay as unnoticed as possible.
“Hey, Charles!” came a soft voice behind him. The man froze and turned. There she was—Mary-Beth—her face bright with a cheerful smile. “Where are you heading to?”
Charles hesitated. Should he tell her the truth? Was she worth his trust..?
“Listen… I’m going to… a meeting. Could you, you know, not tell anyone?” Charles asked in a pleading tone.
Mary Beth didn’t look surprised at all. Instead, her smile turned slightly playful.
“Of course, Charles. I’ll cover for you,” she said with a wink, then spun around and headed toward the dining hall.
Relief washed over him. For a second, he was worried she wasn’t as trustworthy as he’d thought. He let out a breath and continued his little “stroll.”
As he neared the staircase, a ripple of excitement started creeping in. Charles couldn’t help but wonder why Arthur had even invited him to this meeting in the first place. He had no idea what to expect.
He lifted his gaze to the top of the stairs.
And there he was—standing with his back turned—the man Charles had hoped to see. Arthur turned around and glanced back smirking, and Charles returned the smile before starting up the steps.
“Well look who paid me a visit,” Arthur said with a sly grin, his eyes raking over Charles. The boy rolled his eyes, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “Let’s go,” Arthur said casually, turning on his heel and climbing higher toward the exit. Just like that—no explanation.
“But where to?” Charles asked, hurrying to catch up.
“I’ll show ya what a real party look like. But first, we’re goin' to my cabin. Can’t go dressed like this. Damn uncomfortable.” Arthur chuckled, heading toward the third-class section.
Charles nodded. What about his own outfit though?
***
The two men entered the cabin, where only Lenny sat on the bed rummaging through his backpack. He glanced up at them. Charles gave him an awkward little wave, and Lenny nodded back, his face breaking into a look of pure disbelief when he saw Arthur dressed like some high-class politician. He nearly burst out laughing.
“Arthur… what the hell are you wearing?” Lenny asked, barely containing himself. “You could’ve said you were going out to steal something. I would've joined”
Arthur rolled his eyes, digging through his pack for clean clothes.
“I didn’t steal a damn thing, you little shit. And maybe don’t advertise what a petty crook you are infornt of a guest, yeah?” Arthur muttered, frowning in concentration. Then he remembered—Lenny didn’t know Charles. Quickly, he turned and gestured. “This here’s Charles, by the way. Charles—meet Lenny, my roommate.”
“Pleasure,” Lenny said with a wide grin. Charles gave a small nod, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Anyway, I’m out. See ya, boys!” Lenny said, waving as he hurried out the door.
Charles followed him with his eyes, lost in thought. Meanwhile, Arthur was fastening the last button on his shirt. Now fully changed, he turned back to Charles and caught the faraway look on his face.
“Well? What do you think?” Arthur asked, snapping him out of it.
“Of… the outfit?” Charles raised an eyebrow. Just how did Arthur even change so fast? Arthur chuckled, fixing his collar.
“Of the cabins. And Lenny. The outfit too, I guess.”
Charles allowed himself a small smile.
“The cabins are… pretty cozy. No rats, as you said. Lenny seems like a good guy. And the outfit… yeah, it’s fine I guess.” He shrugged. The truth was Arthur looked damn good, but he didn’t need to know that.
Arthur sighed dramatically, though a smile tugged at his lips.
“You wound me. I put in so much effort.” He clutched his chest as if heartbroken. “Do you hand out such rich compliments to everyone, or just me?” he teased.
“These are reserved for you only,” Charles shot back with a small grin.
“Shit. I don’t even know if I should feel special or not.” Arthur pretended to think deeply.
“You shouldn’t,” Charles said dryly. “You done yet?” Arthur smirked and shook his head. “What?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re a really interestin' person, you know that? Has anyone told you that before?” Arthur asked, smirking mischievously.
“Um… no, I dont think so. Why?” Charles muttered, glancing at him with curiousity.
“I don’t know. You’re not like other people. You’re… honest. Brutally honest, I’d say.” Arthur laughed. “And you act like nothin' and no one matters to you, but deep down… you’re a softie. It’s like a mask.”
Charles blushed at how easily the man had read him. Was he really that transparent? Or did Arthur just have some uncanny ability to pull truths out of people? Crossing his arms, he stayed silent.
“See how I nailed you? I’m good, right?” Arthur teased, nudging him in the ribs. Charles rolled his eyes, though a small smile betrayed him. “Alright, let’s go,” Arthur said suddenly, shifting the topic so as not to embarrass him further. Charles nodded, and the two stepped out, heading toward the so-called party.
***
Wow.
That was the only thing running through Charles’s head as he stepped into the massive hall deep in the ship. Wow.
The hall was huge, packed with people just like the one in first class—but everything was different.
The clothes everyone was wearing were simple. The hall itself was far less polished. But none of that was what shocked Charles.
The people… they were happy. Full of life. The space rang with singing, clapping, the sounds of a small band, and—most surprising of all—dancing. Couples spun together, others danced alone, everyone moving to the rhythm with unrestrained joy. Charles couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen dancing like this—if he ever had. He couldn’t look away.
The atmosphere was entirely different. No venom, no hatred, no disdain for one another. Just people enjoying themselves, all together, even if most if not every of them had never met before this voyage.
Charles, on the other hand, felt out of place. Did he really belong here—son of the cold, wealthy elite?
“Well? What do you think? Different from what you’re used to, huh?” Arthur asked proudly, soaking in the joyous scene. But Charles didn’t answer.
Arthur glanced at him and noticed the faintest trace of worry on his face.
“Hey… you alright? Too loud?” Arthur asked, resting a hand on his shoulder. He suddenly remembered Charles was more of an introvert—this crowd might feel overwhelming.
Charles looked at him with surprise. Could Arthur really see straight through him like that?
“No, no—it’s not that,” he answered quickly, shaking his head. “I just… I don’t think I belong here. Maybe I should go back.”
He started to turn, but Arthur caught his hand.
“Oh no, don’t even think about it,” Arthur said firmly, facing him head-on. “You’re right—this isn’t like the company you’re used to. But you know what else is different? Nobody here’s gonna judge you. Doesn’t matter how much money you’ve got or what you’re wearin'. What matters here is that you’re a decent person. And that’s what you are. Right?” He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t wait for an answer—he already knew. Charles just shrugged. “And besides,” Arthur continued, “I don’t get why you think you don’t fit in. You’re nothin' like your family. You didn’t choose to be born into it. If anythin', I’d say you don’t belong in their world.”
That finally earned a small smile from Charles. He glanced down—the man was still holding his hand. Warmth spread through his chest, and he smiled faintly under his breath before sighing and looking back at Arthur.
“Alright then. Let’s go.”
Arthur grinned and headed toward the dance floor. Charles lingered for a second before calling after him.
“Arthur?”
Arthur stopped and looked back.
“Yeah?”
“…Thanks.”
Both men smiled and walked together towards the dance floor.
***
Charles sat at one of the tables, sipping some cheap liquor mixed with a sweet drink. Surprisingly, it tasted better than expected. With a faint smile on his face, he watched the dance floor, full of spinning pairs—mostly men with women, though same-sex couples swirled in the crowd as well.
Among them was Arthur, dancing with a boy—no older than eight—who, as Charles had learned, was the son of a third-class widow Arthur's friend, John, had been rather wildly courting. Arthur twirled the boy around with cheerful energy, and from across the room his mother, much like Charles, watched with a smile, standing beside John. Charles also saw Lenny in the crowd.
When the music came to an end, the boy dashed back to his mother, and the breathless Arthur made his way toward Charles. The man raised an eyebrow at him with a smirk.
“Had fun?” he teased.
“You have no idea… Where does that kid even get so much energy at this hour? He just never gets tired. Unlike me.” Arthur laughed, panting, and then took a gulp of his drink.
“That’s a sign of old age,” Charles replied, glancing around expectantly to see Arthur’s reaction. Arthur just grinned, furrowed his brows, and jabbed him in the shoulder with his elbow.
Arthur was glad to see Charles opening up more, even trading little jokes with him now. The boy’s company was growing on him, and it seemed the feeling was mutual.
“Old age my ass. I’m a young god,” Arthur declared, turning toward the dance floor, where the small band was setting up for the next song. Then an idea struck him. With a mischievous grin, he looked back at Charles.
“Come dance with me.”
Charles frowned, pointing at himself in disbelief.
“Me?” he asked dumbly.
Arthur nodded and grabbed his hand.
“Maybe not—oh!” Charles didn’t even finish before Arthur was already pulling him onto the floor.
They ended up at the edge of the large wooden circle, holding hands awkwardly. Arthur adjusted their position, one arm around Charles’s waist, Charles’s hand resting on his shoulder. Charles felt foolish.
“This is not a good idea…” he muttered, looking down with a sigh. Arthur patted his waist lightly, smiling.
“ Of course it is. Why do you think otherwise?” he asked, genuinely puzzled at the boy’s hesitation.
“I can’t really dance,” Charles admitted, meeting his eyes. Arthur just grinned wider.
“Half the people here can’t either! Especially John. Last time we hit a party, he stepped on some lady’s foot three times and nearly had to pay for her manicure.” He laughed at the memory. Charles chuckled quietly too, glancing at John, who was deep in conversation with some redhead guy.
“There’s nothin' to worry about, Charles. At the end of the day, nobody gives a damn whether you dance well. They’ll only notice if you're havin' fun.” Arthur’s words rang with cheer. Charles smiled faintly, grateful.
“…Okay,” he said, smiling a little wider.
They stood chatting for a moment until the band struck up a lively melody again. Arthur led Charles, and though it was a disaster at first, soon they found their rhythm—jumping and spinning among the other pairs, laughing all the while.
Charles felt happy. Happier than ever. He had never thought a party could be tolerable, let alone this enjoyable. Yet here he was, grinning wider than he had in ages, dancing with Arthur.
They forgot everyone else around them, caught in the music and the clapping of onlookers. For a moment Charles felt as if they were the only two people in the room—just them, and the music. And he found the thought comforting.
When the music ended, the two men left the floor, breathless but cheerful, talking with each other and even mingling with others. To Arthur’s surprise, Charles seemed much more open, more sociable. Was it the alcohol? The good mood? Or maybe Arthur’s words earlier had struck something inside him?
The rest of the night passed in laughter, dancing, and joy. They danced together, but also with others, and it felt like the memory of this night would stay with Charles as something bright.
And it did.
But the next morning, the magic was gone.
***
Charles felt—well, like dead body. Dragging himself out of bed was a miracle. He had definitely overdone it last night.
He rushed through the bathroom to cover his 4 hours of sleep and made his way to breakfast.
Sitting at the table, he immediately sensed something was wrong. His father looked even more inflated with self-importance than usual, and his stepmother seemed troubled. For several minutes they ate in silence.
“Why do you look so worn out?” his father finally asked with a nasty edge, shooting Charles a sharp glance. The boy shifted uncomfortably.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, staring at his bread.
“Really? You sure it wasn’t the dancing with paupers that tired you out?” his father asked with a bitter smile, his brows knitting.
Charles froze, shocked, his own brows furrowing. The word paupers had been spat like a slur.
“So you had me followed?” he asked, his voice rising.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Trailing after that vagrant like some stray dog,” his father barked, half-rising from his chair. His wife placed a hand on his knee, but he shoved it away.
“I’m your son! How can you even say that?” Charles demanded, stunned. His father’s eyes burned with rage.
In a flash, the man was on his feet.
With a guttural yell, he slammed the table over, sending dishes clattering to the floor. Charles’s stepmother staggered back, horrified, staring at the chaos.
Joseph stormed over, seized his son by the robe, and without hesitation struck him hard across the face.
Charles’s head snapped to the side, his eyes instantly brimming with tears. He sat frozen, staring at nothing.
“If I ever see you with Morgan again, I’ll kill him first. Then you,” Joseph growled through gritted teeth before shoving Charles away and storming out.
Charles clutched his cheek, tears streaming down freely now. His step mother, Anne, ran to him, her voice urgent. But he couldn’t hear her. The pain drowned out everything.
Not the sting on his face—though it was already swelling—but a deeper pain. One that pulsed through his veins, into his muscles, into his stomach. A pain that came from his heart.
The same heart that only hours before had felt as if it might finally be mended—now crushed once more.
And the only person who might’ve saved it had just been torn away from him.
Notes:
yeah.. i think i cooked sith this one personally:3 feedback is appreciated!
MeteorGarden on Chapter 1 Mon 12 May 2025 02:28AM UTC
Last Edited Mon 12 May 2025 02:39AM UTC
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meowingmeowmeows on Chapter 1 Mon 12 May 2025 12:02PM UTC
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