April 14th, 1913

"We have to go tonight."

Alfred rolled over in the warm grey morning, draping himself over Arthur. The thin bedsheet was like a membrane between them, muffling their heartbeats. Arthur stirred beneath him irritably.

"Arty?"

"What?" Arthur grumbled, half-awake. "What's this now...?"

"Tonight," Alfred whispered. "I want to leave this place tonight. Let's walk. I... I don't want to sleep."

Arthur searched within the sheets and found Alfred's hand. He closed his own around it, kissing the fingertips.

"My dear," he murmured.

"I mean it." Alfred opened his eyes. "The nightmares come at the best of times-"

"Of course we will." Arthur snuggled against him, the old bed creaking beneath their combined weight. It was really too small to hold the both of them.

"Do you mean it?" Alfred stretched out his cramped legs, his toes spreading.

"Yes," Arthur replied drowsily. "On this night, we must be cast adrift."

There was a bit of a moon and they took one of the old crooked roads out of Ohio; they'd go westward, Alfred said, through Indiana. He had some kind of shack there, unheated, no doubt. They didn't carry much with them when they moved, it slowed them down.

They had slept through the day and left at dusk - and now they were out in the middle of nowhere, just them, hand-in-hand.

Alfred couldn't bear to sleep through this night - or, rather, knew he wouldn't be able to. Better to be out beneath that same black night, those same cold stars. He remembered the bellowing of her tearing steel and the prayers in the water when the plains were silent.

And here was Arthur, who so often had been the one to hold his hand on these ventures, forever at the edge of the untamed. Alfred glanced back at him; he was looking up at the stars, still half-ruined, plump with petty Edwardianism - but in his firm hand Alfred felt him, the flintspark of the Old World who had come crashing in the New, gathered Alfred up, taught him how to fight wars and watch men die and set Empires to sea. There he was, destructive, destroyed - and Alfred loved him.

"Shall we sing?" Alfred asked softly. "It's a long walk. It'll keep our spirits up."

Arthur smiled gently at him.

"What shall we sing?"

Alfred looked up to the immense black sky. Truly, even her hulking broken back had been a mere scratch in the face of the universe.

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Any old thing."

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;

Yet in my dreams I'd be nearer, my God, to Thee;

Or if on joyful wing, cleaving the sky,

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upwards I fly,

Still all my song shall be,nearer, my God, to Thee

June, 1914

It was blisteringly hot in Nebraska - their ninth home in twenty-six months - and Alfred poured them each a glass of water from the stiff tap at the kitchen sink, downing half of his own as he came to the kitchen table. He put Arthur's down next to him.

"Thank you," Arthur murmured, not looking up from the newspaper spread across the table. He reached for it and sipped gratefully, pushing his reading glasses up his nose.

"Is it bad?" Alfred asked, a hand on his hip. He nodded towards the newspaper.

"You might say that," Arthur replied. He leaned back in his chair, taking a more committed mouthful of water. "The Austro-Hungarian archduke has been assassinated."

"Ooh." Alfred winced. "Elizaveta and Roderich aren't going to be happy about that, huh?"

"No, they're not." Arthur frowned, slipping off his glasses. "…I think this is it, old boy. The war, I mean. The powder keg's been waiting to go off for years and I think this might just be the trigger."

Alfred looked candidly at him.

"So what now?" he asked.

"Well, it's a European thing," Arthur sighed. "I wouldn't worry yourself too much. I doubt your government will want to get involved."

"…And you?"

Arthur sighed and got up.

"I suppose I ought to write to the British Embassy in Washington D.C. and let them know where I am." He paused, glancing at Alfred. "…I'll have to go back."

Alfred nodded.

"I know," he said quietly.

He put down his glass and crossed to Arthur, putting his arms around him. Arthur rested his head on his shoulder and exhaled deeply.

"…Not that it hasn't been a delightful two years," he went on, his voice glittering with amusement, "living all over the country with you, half-fugitives and half-married-couple."

Alfred laughed, cuddling him. Arthur was slender again, his waist a trim, healthy thirty-two inches, but it had been a difficult thirteen months battling with him, breaking all the tiny habits and securities and obsessions which had been on the verge of ruining him - a real unpleasant, exhausting slog, especially when Alfred suffered often from such nightmares of the Titanic's sinking that he woke in a blind panic and couldn't get back to sleep for the rest of the night. Even two years later, she and her demise haunted him still; and Arthur was the saviour then, holding him tightly as he calmed and remembered that they were in Maine or Delaware or Illinois, running further from the coast all the time.

Arthur sighed in his arms and pulled away again.

"I'd… better go and write," he said. "They'll need to make arrangements for my return to Britain so the sooner they know…"

"I could take you," Alfred said wistfully. "In my plane."

Arthur paused with his hand on the doorframe. He smirked at Alfred.

"Granted, the last ship I ever set foot on was the disastrous Titanic," he said wryly, "but I'll still take my chances with the sea, darling."

July, 1914

Alfred recognised this scene - although it was in reverse, it seemed. Hopping out of the car at New York Harbor, he looked up at the huge liner with her long black-and-white body and her four orange funnels stretching towards the clouds. It made his heart tighten a little to see her, as though risen from the depths of her watery gravesite, and he dropped his gaze to the cobbles.

Arthur, dressed impeccably in a neat charcoal suit with a teal necktie, came around the side of the car to join him; and they were met by a handful of British Army and Royal Navy officers, who shook hands rather forcibly with Arthur and seemed determined to whisk him away as soon as possible.

"We brought your uniform, Major-General," an army officer pressed, gesturing to himself in his dark green attire, his leather Sam Browne belt gleaming over his chest. "The entire army has adopted the 1902 changes. We'll all be wearing the khaki now, sir - the red will be used only for dress."

"Yes, well, I suppose they always were a little impractical," Arthur said lightly. "Far too garish. I do hope Francis has learnt his lesson." He waved his hand impatiently at the officers. "Anyway, I'll be along shortly."

They scattered reluctantly, as though worried he might vanish again. Arthur rolled his eyes, turning to Alfred with a sharp motion towards the ship that had been sent to fetch him home. "…They would send the bloody Olympic, wouldn't they?"

"I can't even look at her," Alfred said weakly. "She looks… so much like Titanic…"

"To be fair, that's not Olympic's fault," Arthur reasoned. "She was here first." He sighed, reaching out and taking Alfred's hands. "Anyway, Alfred, I… I don't know how long it'll be until I see you again but I just… want you to know that I'm grateful for everything you've done for me since 1912, since Titanic… You've been so good with me, so patient, and to be honest… I don't think I'd be able to face this war, you know, if it wasn't for you."

Alfred smiled faintly.

"You're strong, Arthur."

"No," Arthur said. "I was once - and I am now, I think. But I wasn't in 1912. …I really am so glad, at least, that she had the decency to take it with her after all. The world has changed since she sank, don't you think?"

Alfred gripped his hands.

"For the better, I hope," he said.

Arthur smirked.

"Any change is good enough for me," he replied.

He took Alfred by his lapel and pulled him into a kiss, which they shared for a long moment because this was the first goodbye they'd had to say since coming together at Southampton on Wednesday 10th April, 1912. They had been lucky like that.

"I'll see you soon," Alfred promised breathlessly, kissing Arthur on the forehead. "I'll come as soon as I can, I swear. I'll come and… and help you fight and-"

"Goodness me," Arthur interrupted amusedly, running his thumb over Alfred's cheek. "You and I, allies in a war, fighting side-by-side. This will be a first, won't it?"

"And not the last." Alfred kissed him again. "Okay?"

Arthur grinned.

"Well, when you promise me such things, Alfred," he teased, "then what choice do I have but to say a warm hello! to 1914 and a brand new world?" He put his arms around Alfred's neck, holding him close. "I do hope Titanic's sister will get me there quickly."

"And why is that?" Alfred asked, nuzzling him.

"Because," Arthur whispered in his ear, "I think this century is going to turn out to be rather interesting after all."

…Unfortunately for you, Arthur, it all goes horribly wrong very quickly. Welcome to the bloodiest century (so far) in recorded history. The tragic sinking of the Titanic was just the beginning.

The song lyrics are, of course, those of Nearer, My God, To Thee - alledgedly the last song played by the band on the deck of the sinking Titanic and a favourite of band leader Wallace Hartley.

Thank you to one and all who read 1912 during its original run in 2012 for the one hundredth anniversary - and to those who joined me this week for the rerun. I did my best to make it worthwhile by adding a lot of new material - and honestly I think the story is better for it, as I was able to put in things that I had originally wanted to and had to cut because of time constraints writing the chapters. Also an additional two years' worth of research helped a bit, too! :3

Anyone new to 1912 may be interested to know that this story does in fact have a sequel, written and posted last year: 1915, set in WWI and set around the (deliberate) sinking of the RMS Lusitania.

To the RMS Titanic and all her lost souls: Her memory, at least, is unsinkable.