Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You can say it's all right, but I know that you're breaking up inside...

Daniel walks in the small room that smells faintly of lavender. Allegedly it helps against clothes moths, but Daniel’s clothes are in such state that moths couldn’t do any huge damage to them. He puts a small brown bottle of medicine on the table. “Feel better?” he asks.

Simon smiles at him weakly and sits up in the bed. “Did you sell them?”

“Yes. It was easier than I thought, even though the ship was going in a few hours. They almost ripped my hands off,” Daniel smiles somewhat forcibly.

“You could have still gone,” Simon says quietly. “I’d come later, when I’d get rid of this bloody sickness.”

America was their dream, and they’ve been waiting in Southampton for too long. The third class tickets for Titanic’s voyage to America cost them practically all they had. They even contemplated going anyway, but Daniel suspected that on a ship full of the society’s elite, they wouldn’t let anyone with fever and terrible cough on board. They wouldn’t even let anyone with louses on.

“Hell, no!” Daniel shakes his head. “I want to see the Statue of Liberty for the first time with you by my side.”

Simon smiles again. “Fine.”

“Who cares? America is not going anywhere!” Daniel laughs. “They paid us well for the tickets anyway. We will have no problems getting on another ship. When the coal strike is over.”

“That ship won’t be the Titanic, though,” Simon sighs and then starts coughing again.

“To hell with the Titanic!” Daniel says resolutely and grabs the bottle with medicine. “And take this so we get to America at least this year.”

The a la carte restaurant of the first class is full of voices, laughter, clinking of the dishes and reflections of the ladies’ sequined robes. David Villa and his wife are sitting at a long table together with Fernando Llorente, a young heir to an immense fortune traveling to America to oversee his father’s prospering business.

Marquis Vicente del Bosque, a member of the Spanish aristocracy, is another passenger in the first class. As the Spanish elite keeps together, he has a reservation at their table as well. He appears with two young women. One of them is tall and slender, with long dark hair and enticing face. She is wearing an exquisite white robe completed with a massive necklace and a fur boa. The other one is rather short and blonde, wearing a red sequined robe and long white satin gloves.

“Let me introduce you, ladies,” Del Bosque says. “This is Mr. Villa and his wife Patricia, and Mr. Llorente. Madam, gentlemen, Miss Irina Shayklislamova, and this is Miss Shakira Mebarak.” Both Llorente and Villa get up and kiss the ladies’ hands. They remain standing until Shakira and Irina sit down, the waiters pushing the chairs back carefully.

Despite never meeting them in person, everyone knows the two women. Their fathers are oil tycoons in Russia and Lebanon. That they are traveling together could mean many things that are too serious to be discussed at dinner.

“We missed you during the luncheon here in the Ritz, David,” Llorente says while spreading caviar on his toast. “But you did board in Southampton, didn’t you? Where were you hiding?” A few of their company at the table laugh and Del Bosque pats Llorente on the shoulder like he’s just said the joke of the century.

“We had lunch in the dining room,” Villa explains.

Llorente looks almost offended. “The food there has nothing on the a la carte,” he says. “No offense to the White Star Line, but...”

“We wanted to have lunch with the children,” Patricia says almost like she’s apologizing. “Children are allowed in the dining room if it’s not full.”

“How many children do you have, Patricia?” Shakira asks, putting her out of her misery.

“Three,” Patricia smiles. “But only two are traveling with us. The youngest is still too little, so we left him in Spain. It’s only going to be a short trip after all.”

There is mostly small talk done at the table. The men keep their business affairs for the smoking room. Llorente refuses the second glass of champagne the waiter is about to pour him. “Thank you, Claudio, I’m not so much into champagne,” he says. “I’ll wait for the brandy.” The waiter smiles politely and retires.

When the food is gone, the older ladies at the table get up to leave. Shakira and Irina seem to be having a good time talking about fashion, so they actually ask the waiter for another glass. “Will you stay with us, Patricia?” Shakira asks when the men start retreating to the smoking room.

“No, thank you,” Patricia smiles. “I left the children with the governess, but I’m sure they won’t go to sleep until I come back.”

“See you tomorrow, then,” Shakira says. “Good night.” Irina greets her much more coldly, but still politely.

“She is nice,” Shakira notes when Patricia is gone.

“A bit dull,” Irina frowns. “But to each their own.”

Shakira sighs exasperatedly.

“Oh my God!” Irina whispers then. “I can’t believe it!”

“What?” Shakira asks.

“The Beckhams!” Irina whispers. “Over there!”

“Did you really think they wouldn’t be here?” Shakira smiles, looking at the couple leaving the restaurant. “Victoria just couldn’t miss an opportunity to show off.”

“She is the depiction of poor taste,” Irina shakes her head. “Do you know she wore trousers in public once? The indecency!”

“Her husband has allegedly made quite some money recently,” Shakira says and sips on the champagne. “He bought a share in the railways.”

“Look at those shoes,” Irina says, not even listening to her. “I hope she breaks her ankle in those heels.”

Shakira just rolls her eyes.

Sergi and Marc are watching a group of children running around the third class deck, chasing a rat. “I hope they catch it soon, I wouldn’t want it in my bed,” Marc notes and Sergi laughs.

Suddenly two boys sit on the bench opposite to them. “See? I have a nose for Spaniards!” one of them says contentedly.

“You only have good ears, Jesé,” the other one grins and reaches out to shake Marc’s and Sergi’s hands. “I’m Asier. This crazy person is Jesé.”

“I’m so glad to find some kindred Spanish souls,” Jesé says. “This ship is full of Irishmen.”

“No, not this ship, just this class,” Sergi corrects him. “I’m sure in the first class you’d find mostly Englishmen. Or Americans. I can’t really tell them from each other.”

The rat runs in their direction, having escaped the children’s hats and hands. Asier makes a quick grab for it and manages to trap it in his hat and lift it up. “You, rat, are a fare dodger, you know? I had to pay insane money for my ticket and you paid nothing. There’s no place for you here!” he says and throws the rat over the rail.

“Getting used to the comfort quickly, Asier, eh?” Jesé pokes him in the ribs. “You’d never waste food like this before.”

It takes them all a good moment to get the joke. Then Asier jumps on Jesé, determined to beat the crap out of him, and Marc and Sergi almost fall off the bench with laughter.

“Excuse him, he’s Basque,” Jesé says when they stop fighting. That earns him another elbow in the ribs.

“What are you going to do in America, then?” Sergi laughs.

“Well, Jesé says he wants to settle,” Asier makes a face. “He says that about five times a year and changes his mind after two months. The worst idea he’s ever had was probably when he wanted to settle in Norway. Then his ass almost froze off and he said America would be better.”

The gong announcing that dinner will be served soon sounds from the inside of the ship. “Well, see you later,” Jesé says. “Are you at least sharing a cabin with people you understand? We have a French and a Hungarian. No chatting there, I’m afraid.”

“We have two Bulgarians,” Sergi grins. “Wanna switch?”

“Uh, no, thank you!” Jesé makes a face.

Sergi and Marc stay on the deck while Jesé and Asier head inside. “Think they’re chasing the American dream as well?” Jesé asks.

“Honestly? These two look like they’re on their honeymoon,” Asier states with a serious face. “But I swear that I know this Marc from somewhere. If only I could remember.”

The second class dining room is only half-full when Miro and Thomas arrive. They find a place in the corner, for it seems to be the quietest they can get. Thomas knows that Miro sometimes works on his book even during meals.

He works on his book all the time, and Thomas highly suspects that he will never be done with it. But it’s one of the reasons why he loves Miro, after all. The commitment to things that nobody else seems to appreciate.

“The ship is really awesome,” Thomas says, admiring the interior. He’s always been the one to admire architecture, furniture, material things. Miro just hums and scribbles something in his notebook, above the mundane things as usual. “Please don’t tell me that you’ll spend the whole sail in your cabin, just writing,” Thomas sighs.

“I’d like to, actually,” Miro says. “I need to have everything ready when we get to America. The publishers there will want to see...”

“Miro!” Thomas says patiently. “The publishers there don’t even know that you exist. Surely they can wait a week or two until you show them your magnus opus.”

“Magnum opus,” Miro corrects him. “And I want to go the the first publishing house as soon as I get off the ship, actually.”

“I’m still going to make sure you get some fresh air,” Thomas shakes his head and reaches for a piece of bread. “Otherwise you won’t even know that you crossed the Atlantic.”

“Have you found the key to the binoculars?” Officer Steven Gerrard asks the passing crewman on his way to his cabin.

“No, sir,” the crewman shakes his head. “It’s nowhere to be found, sir.”

“Bloody Rooney!” Gerrard swears. “He must have taken the key with him when he was excluded from the voyage.”

“I’d break that lock if it was for me,” Officer Henderson says.

“And the White Star Line would make you pay for the whole ship,” Gerrard makes a face. “They’ll have to cope without the binoculars in the crow’s nest until we get to New York.”

“Let’s hope they see the ships coming before we cut them in half,” Henderson laughs. “Night, Steven.”

“Night, Jordan.” Gerrard closes the door of his cabin. He discards his jacket and breathes in the smell of fresh paint and new linen. He has until the morning before he has to relieve Terry, and he’s determined to profit from the sleep time to the fullest.

Villa looks at the steward who brings him brandy and offers him a box of expensive cigars. “Thank you, I don’t smoke,” he says. “My wife would kill me.” The steward smiles and heads to the other side of the room.

“Gentlemen, can I introduce you to Mr. David Moyes, the shipbuilder?” Del Bosque’s jovial voice sounds from the door.

“So you’re the creator of this monster?” Villa chuckles and shakes the man’s hand.

“Well, I didn’t put it together with my bare hands, but let’s say it’s my child,” Moyes smiles. “The idea, though, belongs to Mr. Abramovich.”

“Are you aiming for the Blue Riband, Mr. Abramovich?” Llorente asks, looking at the director of the White Star Line.

“You’d have to ask Captain Hodgson,” Abramovich says. “The ship is at his command.”

“But she is capable of breaking the record, isn’t she?” a young German aristocrat, Manuel Neuer, asks.

“I believe that she is. Am I right, Mr. Moyes?”

“You should ask the captain to show you,” Moyes smiles.

“I certainly will,” Abramovich nods. He searches the room with his eyes until he finds the steward. “Silva! Where are my cigars, son?”

The steward brings the box with cigars and lights one up for Abramovich. Abramovich blows out a cloud of smoke and smiles. “This voyage will make the headlines. Titanic is going to be a big part of the history,” he says. “Mark my words, gentlemen.”

Chapter Text

You can sleep in my arms, you don't have to explain
When your heart's crying out, baby, whisper my name


The weather is warm and sunny, the sea calm. The first class passengers are walking on the promenade, getting some fresh air. Vicente Del Bosque is accompanied by Fernando Llorente who by no means looks interested in the meaningless conversation Villa and Patricia are having with some other socialites.

“Is your father still insisting on you getting married as soon as possible?” Del Bosque asks.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Llorente nods. “Luckily he hasn’t found a bride rich enough yet. So I’m hoping for one more year of freedom, at least until I return from America.”

Del Bosque chuckles and lights another cigar. “Miss Shayklislamova wouldn’t be a bad choice of a wife,” he notes.

“I‘m afraid that Miss Shayklislamova is a bit out of my league,” Llorente smiles.

“She is out of everyone’s league,” Del Bosque says calmly. “I don’t think her father will be looking for a husband richer than he is, he’d find no one. Rather for someone with a good name and reputation. Which you certainly have.” He smirks, looking over to where Irina and Shakira are standing, watching a group of children playing with a ball on the poop deck.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Shakira smiles.

“I don’t really like children,” Irina says coldly.

One of the children suddenly throws the ball too high an it gets trapped behind a small gate separating the third and the first class. A boy runs after it and a girl follows him. They stop when a tall officer stands in their way. “Third class passengers are not allowed past this point,” he says.

“But...” the boy objects.

“Go back where you belong.”

The children retreat back to the lower deck. Shakira approaches the officer and clears her throat. “Excuse me, officer...”

“Hart, Miss. Officer Hart.”

“Officer Hart. I witnessed this scene and I really didn’t like your conduct. The children just wanted their ball back.”

“I have my orders, Miss,” the officer replies politely.

Shakira purses her lips, then picks up the ball from the ground. “But we are allowed past this point, aren’t we?” she smiles and opens the gate. She turns around and beckons Irina. “Come.”

“Are you actually going to speak to anyone ever again?” Sergi asks on the way from breakfast. “You’ve barely said three words to those two guys.”

Marc looks at him and narrows his shoulders. “It was a miracle that I found this Danish guy selling two tickets. Our names are not even on the passenger list. It’s perfect. Excuse me if I don’t want to tell the whole world who I am now.”

“Do you think your father will sail across the ocean to America to look for you there?”

“Maybe not in person. But I’m sure he’d send some of his men to drag me back, even if they had to chain me to the bloody ship so that I couldn’t swim back.”

Sergi laughs. “Still... I don’t think those guys would run to your father immediately to give you in. They look nice.”

“Everyone looks nice to you,” Marc mumbles.

“Well, I might not have gone to a fancy school because I was too busy working my shifts in your father’s factory, but I’m not stupid!” Sergi snaps.

Marc blinks in surprise. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks.

“You need to learn to trust people if you want to survive in this world, Marc!” Sergi says. “With this attitude you should have booked a first class ticket. And eat caviar with the likes of Del Bosque.”

Marc sighs and grabs Sergi’s arm. “You know I don’t care about caviar,” he whispers. “I care about you. And I’ll follow you everywhere. Even if I have to sleep with rats.”

Sergi’s face softens. “I promise there’ll be no rats in America,” he says.

“How do you know? I thought rats lived everywhere.”

“They do,” Sergi nods. “But I’ll set up traps.”

Marc just laughs and hugs him.

Captain Hodgson is standing at the bridge, looking out at the ocean and caressing the brand new rail lovingly like a father caresses his daughter’s hair. He accepts a cup of tea from Jordan Henderson, the Fifth Officer, dips the slice of lemon in it with a silver teaspoon that is as brand new as everything on the ship, and takes a sip. Then he looks at the other officer who comes up to him.

“Sir,” the Chief Officer Gary Neville says and salutes him. “We’re going on nineteen knots, sir.”

“Very well,” Hodgson smiles. “Let’s see what she can do.”

The steerage passengers go silent when Shakira and Irina pass them by. Irina looks mildly unsure and disgusted while Shakira is all smiles.

“I believe you lost this, darling!” Shakira says and hands the ball to the boy.

The man standing next to the boy looks at him. “I told you to be careful!” he says.

“But dad, Vitória threw it too high!” the boy protests, pointing at the little girl.

“Thank you, ma’am,” his father says.

“You’re welcome,” Shakira smiles and then looks at the little girl, hiding behind her mother. “Oh, you have this spinning toy! I’ve always wanted one but my father would never allow me to have it!”

Vitória makes a step to the side to look at Shakira. “Would you want to try it?” she asks.

“Vitória!” her mother shushes her. “The lady has no time to play with you.”

“Oh, I do have time!” Shakira smiles. “Until we dock in America, actually. If you wouldn’t mind showing me... Irina, wait for me, please, it will be just a moment!”

Before Irina can utter a word, Shakira, the girl and her mother, and also the little boy are gone to the emptier part of the deck. Irina finds herself alone with the boy’s father.

“Um... I think I didn’t introduce myself,” he says. “I’m Cristiano. Cristiano Ronaldo.”

“Irina Valeryevna Shaykhlislamova,” Irina says, frowning when he shakes her hand rather strongly.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pronounce it.”

Irina smiles somewhat forcibly. “This is your son, then?” she asks.

“Yes. It’s Cris. Junior.”

“Is his mother also traveling with you?”

“No. She died shortly after Junior’s birth.”

“Oh. I am sorry.” She looks away, wishing for Shakira to come back already. “So...” she says then, to break the awkward silence. “What are you going to do in America?”

“Oh, I... well, I hope to find some work there. Anything, really. To start a better life, and mainly, to have a better future for Junior.”

Irina nods, clutching the rim of her hat.

“So what do you do?” Cristiano asks. “I mean, your job.”

“My job?” she stares at him.

“Oh. Oh, well. That was a stupid question. I’m sorry. I mean... sure you don’t...”

“No, it’s all right,” Irina stops his ramble and looks out to the horizon. “I guess my only job is to marry well.” Cristiano just keeps looking at her. Irina laughs uneasily. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said this.”

“Maybe because it’s true,” Cristiano says. “And because such things can only be told to poor Portuguese steerage passengers you’re never going to meet again.”

“Perhaps,” Irina nods and almost startles when Shakira suddenly appears by her side. “I have to go. It was my pleasure... Mr. Ronaldo.”

“It was mine, really,” Cristiano says and attempts a more elegant handshake. “Maybe we will see each other again. I mean, on this ship. I mean, accidentally, of course.”

“Maybe,” Irina nods and follows Shakira to the small gate.

“You came back late last night,” Patricia says when Villa is clipping her necklace before dinner.

“A lot of gentlemen’s talk,” Villa smiles.

“Lately gentlemen’s talk has been your universal excuse for not spending time with me.”

“Patricia, please...”

Patricia turns around and looks him in the eyes. “That we have three children doesn’t mean that your duty is over. A marriage isn’t over like this. I think you tend to forget about it.”

“Of course I don’t forget about it.”

“You do. You also tend to forget that my family got you out of trouble. And that my father wasn’t happy about me marrying you. But I fought for you, and I’m not going to stop now.” She grabs her shawl and wraps it around her shoulders. “I’ll give you this time on the sea. Amuse yourself. But when we dock in America, I want you to remember that you have a wife, and that your wife always comes first. Always,” she says and looks at him again. “Shall we go?”

“Who the hell ordered ossobucco?” Alessandro yells. “It’s not on the menu!”

“It doesn’t matter what is or isn’t on the menu, Matri,” Antonio Conte says in a forcibly patient tone. “Our interest is to please the guest. So get to work.”

Alessandro mumbles something and bangs the pans a bit more than usually. Conte raises his brows and then goes to check on the other cooks.

Barely forty minutes later, Claudio, one of the waiters, walks in the kitchen and looks around. “Hey!” he calls. “The guest that ordered ossobucco wants to speak to the cook. Immediately.”

Conte’s face goes red and Alessandro gulps. Antonio grabs him by the shirt and drags him out of the kitchen. “I’ll have you fired the moment we dock in America, I swear!” he hisses.

Claudio shows them to the table where a well-dressed Italian man is sitting in the company of an elderly couple and a young woman.

“Signori, my name is Antonio Conte. You wished to talk to my employee, I believe,” Antonio says.

“My daughter Federica did,” the man says and looks at the young woman sitting next to him.

“You prepared this?” she asks and looks at Alessandro.

“Yes, signorina,” Alessandro nods.

“My daughter wanted...” her father starts.

“I wanted to say it was delicious,” Federica smiles. “The best I’ve ever had, really.”

“But... you said...” her father frowns in confusion.

“You must have misunderstood, papa. It’s extraordinary,” Federica says with a wide smile and eats another piece. “That will be all. Thank you.”

Antonio bows politely and turns around. He shakes his head with disgust while Alessandro flashes him a winning smile. “Someone on this ship has gone mad,” he mumbles.

Shakira and Patricia are heading towards the lift. Shakira was relieved when Irina decided to retire early, so she didn’t have to spend the night with her again. She suspects Irina went to her cabin so early mainly because of Fernando Llorente, who for some reason decided to court her. Whatever the reason was, Shakira had a great time chatting with Patricia who for once decided to stay longer at the restaurant.

When they arrive to the lift, the stewards are just switching. The one relieving the current one looks at Shakira and Patricia arriving. “Go, I’ll take it,” he says.

“Thanks. Good shift, Óliver,” his colleague says.

“Goodnight, Antoine.”

Antoine nods and greets also the two women on his way. Óliver opens the lift door and lets Shakira and Patricia in.

“Did you see Mrs. Beckham’s hat?” Patricia asks when the lift starts to move.

“I’m not sure if it was a hat or a house,” Shakira says. Then she notices the lift steward’s lips twitch. “Spanish?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy says.

“I’ll have to mind what I say from now on, when you’re on duty... Óliver,” Shakira smiles.

The lift stops on the A deck. “Good night, ladies,” Óliver says.

Patricia doesn’t even answer and heads to her cabin. Shakira turns around and smiles. “Good night,” she says. “And please, don’t tell Mrs. Beckham anything about houses.”

“I won’t,” Óliver assures her. “Though I hope her hat can fit in this lift.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Shakira laughs and starts towards the door of her cabin.

It’s around two o’clock in the morning and the smoking room is empty. Even the gentlemen like signor Nargi and Roman Abramovich have retired to their cabins already. Villa is sitting in the armchair that is the closest to the fireplace, looking at the clock standing on the mantelpiece.

“Would you like some more brandy, sir?” the steward asks.

“No, thank you... Silva,” Villa says. “I think I’ve had more than enough.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

Villa shakes his head and looks at him. The steward is definitely younger than him, his face looks exotic compared to the majority of the crew. There is a polite but tired smile on his lips. “I’m probably keeping you here when you could already go to bed,” Villa sighs.

“It’s not a problem, sir,” Silva smiles. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Villa laughs and points to the other armchair. “How about a little chat, then?”

“I’m afraid that I’m not capable of holding conversations like the gentlemen you’re used to talking to,” Silva smiles shyly, but sits down nevertheless.

“That’s only good. I’m sick and tired of them. It’s always the same. Business, women, boasting and money. I hoped you could tell me something more interesting.”

“What could possibly be interesting about my life for someone like you, sir?”

“I don’t care. Tell me about changing the napkins or the adventures with stewardesses in the pantry room.”

Silva blushes. “I don’t do such things, sir.”

“Of course,” Villa says and rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m really acting inappropriately.”

“Why don’t you go get some rest, sir?” Silva asks, and it’s not really a way of telling him to sod off, there’s some real concern in his voice. It almost moves Villa to tears. He blames it on the alcohol.

“In my cabin I’d hardly get any rest, I’m afraid,” he sighs. “Rather a whispered argument with my wife, not to wake up the children and the governess. I’d get threats and reminders of who got me out of trouble, and I’d feel like the last whore from a port because yes, my wife bought me this life, even this ticket, hail the woman!”

Only when Silva shushes him he realizes that he’s almost yelling. Luckily there are no people around at this hour, though he’s in such state that he couldn’t care less about who hears him. He gets up and heads to the door. Silva catches up with him. “I’ll walk you to the lift,” he offers.

“I’d like to get some air first, until this all suffocates me again,” Villa says. He heads out of the dining room to the non-smoking area, where by day children play, and spends long minutes just looking at the dark masses of water. “Are you a good swimmer, Silva?” he asks.

“I dare to say that I am, sir. I grew up by the sea.”

“If I jumped off the ship right now, what would you do?”

“I’d shout ‘man overboard’. And Captain Hodgson would be very upset if he had to stop the ship to attempt your rescue.”

“Right,” Villa laughs. “I’d probably lose the Blue Riband race for him.”

Silva is just looking at him and his face is the kindest Villa has seen in a long time. “Let’s take you to the lift, sir,” he says then.

Chapter Text

April 12, 1912

I will risk everything, I will fight, I will bleed
I will lay down my life, if that's what you need

“Will the princess come again, daddy?” Cris asks while turning a spoon in his plate of porridge.

“The princess?” Cristiano looks at him.

“The one you talked to yesterday.”

Andreia and Fábio laugh. “She was no princess, Junior,” Cristiano smiles. “It was a lady from the first class. And I don’t think that she will come here again.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because... she actually can’t go here, same as I can’t go where she is staying. Remember what the officer told you?”

“But why?”

Cristiano looks at Fábio and Andreia, but they keep their heads down. They are most likely praying for their little Vitória never to ask that question. Explaining to your child why some people are awfully rich and they can’t even get new shoes when their toes already hurt in the too small ones is one of the hardest parts of parenting.

“Because, you know, she has a ticket for this ship, just like you have yours. You’ve seen the ticket, didn’t you?”

Cris nods and looks at him.

“And that ticket tells you where your place on this ship is. The officers are strict men and they have to know where everyone is so that nobody gets lost. This is why she has to stay where it’s written on her ticket and you have to stay here.”

Cris nods and frowns in his porridge. Then he smiles brightly. “Maybe if I lose the ball again, she will come.”

Alessandro is waiting hidden behind the door of the restaurant. He‘s quite sure that if Conte sees him there doing nothing, he will have him fired, but he considers it all worth the risk. He‘s watching through the door that leads into Café Parisien where some of the passengers are still enjoying breakfast.

Signor Nargi finishes his meal and gets up. His daughter doesn‘t seem to be done with hers. He leaves without telling her anything, so probably taking long at breakfast is her habit.

She gets up some ten minutes later. Alessandro opens the door just then, to make it seem like an accidental encounter. “Signorina Federica,” he says and nods slightly.

“Oh, it’s you!” she laughs. “I see you survived last night.”

“Thank you,” Alessandro says. “For saving me. My life was practically in your hands in that moment.”

Federica smiles. “It took a lot of courage to eat another piece of that meat, I can tell you,” she says.

“I swear that I’m not a bad cook, just ossobucco is my weak point. If you ordered a dessert...”

“I like desserts,” Federica says and takes a step closer. “But I tend to have dessert cravings late at night, and the restaurant closes at ten. Do you think it would be possible to... make an exception?”

Alessandro chuckles. “And would you like to have it in the restaurant or do you prefer a delivery service?”

The moment he starts to feel like he stepped over the line, Federica smiles and narrows her eyes. “I would like a delivery service to the cabin C45,” she says. Then she turns around to leave, but stops after a few steps and looks at Alessandro. “The brandy in the smoking room must be exquisite,” she says. “My father never returns before two in the morning.”

Marc is desperately trying to act more friendly towards Jesé and Asier, and Sergi is desperately trying not to say anything about the way he does it.

“He seriously still believes we don’t know who he is?” Asier grins when Sergi is trying to repair an Italian boy’s toy. Kids always swarm around Sergi like they’ve known him for ages.

“And do you?” Sergi raises his brows and hands the toy back to the boy, who cheers and runs to rejoin his friends.

“Well, if this isn’t the beloved only son of Josep Bartra who owns every second factory in Spain, I’ll eat the next rat I manage to catch,” Asier says.

“Please, let him believe you don’t know anything,” Sergi pleads and glances towards Marc nervously. “I wouldn’t want to put up with his moods for the rest of the journey.”

“You two are really mad,” Asier laughs. “Alright, you have my word. I’ll pretend he totally acts like a steerage passenger. But hell, it will be a tough one.”

After about an hour of trying to persuade Miro to join him for the afternoon coffee on the boat deck, Thomas gives up. He leaves him with his notebook on one of the benches and decides to have his coffee alone.

“Your companion isn’t very sociable,” a young man standing at the rail notes in a slightly accented German.

“No, not really,” Thomas smiles and holds out his hand. “Thomas Müller.”

“Klaas-Jan Huntelaar, nice to meet you.”

The steward offers them coffee and they both accept. “What is it that he’s writing?” Klaas-Jan asks, glancing towards Miro who is frantically scribbling in his notebook.

“I don’t really know. He tried to explain it to me a couple times but it’s way too complicated for me to understand. I think it’s too complicated for everyone. But he’s convinced that the publishers in America will fight with each other for the publishing rights.” He shakes his head exasperatedly. “What about you and your plans?”

“Not nearly as exciting nor noble,” Klaas-Jan chuckles. “My family owns a fruit farm in the States. I was settling some things back home in the Netherlands and now I’m coming back to America. Hopefully the harvest will be so good that the next time I’m on this ship, I’ll be able to afford a first class ticket. I wouldn’t say no to the ten course menu in the first class.”

“Oh well, it’s not like our menu is bad,” Thomas grins.

Klaas-Jan narrows his eyes. “It’s not bad, but seven courses are missing.”

Shakira glances at Irina who has barely spoken a word since they arrived at the table. And as they are already leaving the restaurant, it means that she hasn’t said anything for hours. Not even the shocking gown Victoria Beckham wore seemed to interest her this time.

“What are you thinking about?” Shakira asks. “Or should I rather ask... who?”

“Shakira, please!” Irina hisses and looks around.

“I noticed that you liked him,” Shakira smiles. “The Portuguese.”

“No, I just...” Irina sighs. “I just felt... free, you know? When I was talking to him and I didn’t have to mind my words, I... It felt so relieving, and it was like it kind of helped me put my thoughts into order. And I realized that maybe I’m constantly lying to myself while deep inside I know what I want. I just can’t admit it to myself when I’m alone or with these people around.”

“Then you should talk to him again,” Shakira says like it’s the most natural thing.

Irina doesn‘t look like she wants to discard the idea, she just looks positively terrified of it. “How do you want me to get to the third class unnoticed? And if someone sees me, my father will probably hear about it before I even disembark in New York. And he will kill me!”

“You might be lucky tonight,” Shakira smiles. Then she approaches the lift steward and looks around. “I need a favor from you, Óliver,” she says.

“At your service, Ma’am.”

“I need you to take my friend down to the third class,” Shakira says and tucks a banknote in his pocket. “And to keep it secret.”

“Sure.”

“If someone sees you, make something up.” She smiles encouragingly at Irina who is rather pale and shaking. “If someone asks for you I’ll say you’re unwell,” she says. “I wouldn’t be lying, actually, would I?”

“Sir,” the telegraphist Martin Kelly says and hands Officer Gerrard a piece of paper. “Ice warnings, sir. It’s from Touraine.”

“Thank you,” Gerrard says, scans the paper and goes to the bridge. He hands the paper to Officer Terry. “Touraine sent ice warnings, it says there is an ice field ahead of us.”

Terry nods and walks over to the map. “It’s not in our way, though,” he says. “We will miss it by far.”

“Fine. Just wouldn’t want us to be forced to stop,” Gerrard says.

“Stop? Captain Hodgson has just ordered to go faster. He wouldn’t stop if there was a wall of ice in front of us,” Terry smirks. “Oh well, I’m going to have dinner before I die. I’m tired like a dog.”

Villa hesitates for a while when Del Bosque excuses himself after dinner. Even him not spending the night drinking and smoking would be a good ammunition for Patricia, in case she needed another argument besides those of Villa forgetting he has a wife. But she herself gave him a permission, and he is determined to make use of it.

With Del Bosque gone, it’s Llorente in charge of leading the conversation in the smoking room, but he apparently doesn’t really feel well in that role. He is missing the father figure he is used to, constantly observing him, correcting and advising.

“Brandy, sir?” a familiar voice rouses Villa from his musings.

He looks up at the steward. The smile on Silva’s face is still the same, calm, anchoring and genuine. “Just a little bit, thank you,” Villa says.

The steward gives him a knowing smile and pours brandy in Villa’s glass. There is such quiet understanding between them that Villa thinks he has never experienced, not with his family and definitely not with his wife.

“Gentlemen!” a loud voice cuts through the room and breaks the magic, much to Villa’s dismay.

“So you actually leave your wife’s side, Mr. Beckham?” Villa asks, the inexplicable anger making him forget of the good manners.

“My wife is tired,” Beckham narrows his eyes. “And unlike other wives, she leaves me much freedom. I just don’t always choose to profit from it.”

Villa is sure that had Del Bosque been in the room, he would make a jovial remark and settle the matter. But with Llorente’s non-existent diplomacy, the sarcasm is bound to hover in the room for the rest of the night.

Irina prays all the time it takes the lift to take them down to the third class for everyone to be hidden somewhere. She hopes that the third class isn’t like the first class where the stewards seem to multiply every time she looks at one. She isn’t even sure if there are stewards in the third class at all. But probably this ship offers at least some extra comfort even for the poor. If it is the case, she hopes all the possible third class stewards have a night off or something.

No such luck. When the lift door opens, a tall steward standing on the corridor looks at them and frowns. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

Irina pales and holds her breath. Óliver doesn’t miss a beat. “This lady has lost her dog somewhere, and can’t find it, Mr. Carroll,” he says. “She thinks maybe some of the third class kids took it.”

“I won’t sleep if I don’t find my puppy!” Irina whines.

“Do you want me to help you look for it, Miss?” Óliver asks, raising his brows slightly in hope Irina catches on.

“No, thank you, I’ll manage. Perhaps this gentleman will be so kind...” she looks at Carroll.

“Um... where did you see it for the last time?” Carroll asks.

“I think it was over there,” Irina motions towards the door at the end of the corridor.

“That’s the engine room,” Carroll frowns.

“Oh my God!” Irina shrieks. “If my puppy went there... I don’t even want to imagine what could have happened to it! You have to go there and look for it! Quick!”

She keeps the frightened look on her face until the totally dumbfounded Carroll disappears in the engine room. Óliver is practically crying with laughter, clutching the door of the lift. “Will you get back on your own, Miss?” he asks then.

“Yes. Thank you,” Irina says. “And please...”

“I won’t tell anyone that you don’t have a dog.”

Irina smiles and nods. Óliver closes the door of the lift and rides up. When he opens it again on the upper deck, it reveals a very angry Vicente Del Bosque waiting there for apparently a long time already. “Were you having a nap down there, boy?” he growls and gets in.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Óliver mumbles. “To the first class cabins, sir?”

“Well, yes, I’d like to get back to my cabin at last, thank you!” Del Bosque says. “Whatever happened to the White Star Line principles, really.”

“She’s a goddess, Claudio! A true Italian goddess on this ship full of boring Englishmen!”

“Her godly father will strike you down with a lightning if you lay a finger on her, you know that,” Claudio chuckles and hits Alessandro with his hat.

“She started to flirt with me!” Alessandro objects.

“Which will surely interest her father,” Claudio smirks. “Wake up. You’re a cook. She’s a rich girl who probably has some rich fiancé waiting for her in America.”

Alessandro shakes his head. “We’re not in America yet.” He combs back his hair and heads to the door.

Claudio shakes his head in bewilderment. “You’re not going there, are you?”

“As signor Conte said, our interest is to please the guest!” Alessandro winks.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to get to America alive, man,” Claudio sighs.

Fábio walks out on the now empty poop deck and carefully avoids the luggage and crates stored there. Cristiano is watching the starry sky.

“Andreia’s putting the children to sleep,” Fábio says and lights a cigarette.

Cristiano nods and smiles. “You must feel like you have two kids instead of one sometimes,” he says, somehow apologetically.

“Three,” Fábio corrects him. “Though the third is actually a stowaway still.”

“I don’t think they consider unborn children stowaways,” Cristiano laughs.

“The Englishmen? Oh, trust me, they do!” Fábio chuckles and looks into the semi-darkness. Then he pokes Cristiano in the ribs. “Cris! Cris, look!”

Cristiano looks up to the stairs that lead to the upper deck. For a moment what he sees looks like a ghost, the person’s silver dress shining in the moonlight.

“It’s her!” Fábio whispers. “Your princess from the first class!”

“No, it can’t be,” Cristiano says.

“It’s her! Well, what do you think, that she got lost in here?” Fábio smirks. “Go to her!”

“But...”

“Goddammit, if you don’t go to her, I’ll bring you there kicking your ass!” Fábio hisses.

Cristiano gets up and walks across the deck slowly. Irina remains standing on the stairs.

“Miss Sh... Irina,” Cristiano says, secretly hoping for the use of her first name being less inappropriate than a complete slaughter of her last name.

“Mr. Ronaldo,” she nods.

Somewhere behind them, Fábio promptly removes himself and disappears inside.

“I...” Irina starts hesitantly.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Cristiano interrupts her. “That the stars are best visible from the worst part of this ship.”

Irina looks up and smiles. “Yes,” she nods. “Yes, I came to look at the stars, actually.”

“What a surprise to meet you here, then,” Cristiano grins. “Accidentally, of course.”

Federica opens the door, wearing an exquisite nightdress.

“Signorina, your mousse ghiacciata al cocco,” Alessandro grins.

“It looks amazing,” Federica says, takes the plate and lays it on the small table by the door before grabbing the front of Alessandro’s shirt and pulling him inside. “But I’m going to keep it for later.”

Chapter Text

Every beat of my heart, every day without end

Every second I live, that's the promise I make

“So?” Claudio asks when they’re heading to the kitchen. “How was the night with the goddess?”

“An earthquake is nothing compared to it,” Alessandro grins.

“You’re lying.”

“If you think so...” Alessandro shrugs.

That he’s not pursuing the matter further, trying to persuade Claudio, makes Claudio actually stare at him with his eyes wide. “You really... really spent the night with her?” he asks.

“Well, not the entire night, I had to get out before her father came back from the smoking room,” Alessandro says.

“And you two...”

“Well, what do you think we were doing, playing chess?” Alessandro laughs.

“How do you even do that?” Claudio sighs. “You always get so lucky. You weren’t even meant to be on this ship. If De Rossi didn’t break his arm...”

Alessandro just smiles. The bit about pouring olive oil on the floor behind De Rossi can stay his little secret.

Shakira has enough patience, but when Irina keeps staring at the slowly cooling cup of tea without saying anything, she drops the napkin on the table and looks right at her.

“So?” she asks.

Irina almost jumps up. Then she looks at Shakira accusingly. “Do you want to get me in trouble?” she asks.

“No, I’m trying to help you,” Shakira says. “You said yourself that talking to him helped you. So what is the problem?”

“Do I have to remind you why I’m traveling on this ship?” Irina sighs. “My parents got the passenger list before they bought my ticket and my mother used it as a catalogue to choose my future husband. Do you think that she picked a certain Cristiano Ronaldo from the third class?”

“And who says that you have to listen to your parents, always and in everything?”

“My parents are not like yours, Shakira!” Irina objects. “I don’t have your freedom, I can’t be who I want to be! When you wanted to study, they let you study, when you wanted to travel, they let you travel, and when you said you didn’t want to get married until you found the love of your life, they said it was all right. But I don’t have brothers, I’m the only thing my father can use to make business with. I can find myself without money, without a home, alone, washing the laundry somewhere in New York, if this lift steward ever turns me in to someone on this ship.”

Shakira shakes her head. “Why would he do that, as long as you give him money? What kind of life do you imagine the boy has? He sleeps in a cabin with at least ten other stewards and has to scrape at whatever is left in the kitchen when he wants to have dinner. It wouldn’t be really in his interest to turn you in when you’re actually paying him more in one evening than the White Star Line ever will for the whole journey.”

Irina cringes and shoots Shakira a disapproving look because the insights into the life of the poor are definitely not what she likes to hear. Shakira pretends she didn’t notice. “I’m still interested in who your mother picked from the passenger list, though,” she smiles mischievously.

“You’re insupportable,” Irina sighs.

In the early afternoon, Thomas finally persuades Miro to take a walk on the boat deck with him. He has to lock Miro’s book in Klaas-Jan’s safe to get him out, and Klaas-Jan can’t stop laughing at them, but at least Miro seems to even enjoy the fresh air.

“Boats everywhere. Like the ship wasn’t unsinkable!” Thomas shakes his head when they’re passing the line of lifeboats.

“I don’t believe in immortal people, nor do I believe in unsinkable ships,” Miro says. “I’m glad the boats are here.”

“I hope you’re not going to drill a hole in the ship to prove your point,” Thomas grins.

“I would rather not, as I hope to get to America faster than I would on any other ship.”

“I know, I know, to get your opum magnum to the publishers.”

“Magnum opus.”

Thomas rolls his eyes.

The promenade deck is full of passengers enjoying the nice weather. Villa decides to go out after having spent the morning sending telegraphs and taking care of business. He knows that every time he is busy with something related to work, Patricia leaves him alone. He has to make a retribution in the form of a walk, though.

The governess is gone with the children to Café Verandah, as there is a non-smoking area and thus it is a popular place for mothers with children. He is relieved when other passengers join them during the walk because it is always easier to pretend when other people are around.

He soon manages to escape the chattering group, pretending he has something to tell to Mr. Moyes. In fact, the two men only exchange banal sentences about weather and the ship. When he arrives at Café Verandah, he plops down onto one of the wicker chairs.

“Would you like some coffee, sir?” he hears above him and looks up.

To his surprise, he is looking at Silva, polite as ever with the kind smile, the sun revealing a constellation of freckles across his face that the lamps of the smoking room somehow hid from Villa’s eyes. “I thought your place was somewhere else,” Villa notes and immediately regrets it, because it sounds so inappropriate, it sounds like he can decide where Silva goes and what he does.

Silva’s smile doesn’t disappear from his face, though. “A colleague was feeling unwell, sir, so I took his place just for the afternoon.”

Villa takes the cup from him and stirs the coffee with a tiny silver spoon. Everything is so small in this world, he thinks. Cups, spoons, people. Suddenly he craves big pints of beer in dirty taverns and the company of carpenters he used to see in his home town, with their broad shoulders and loud voices. “Nothing serious, I hope,” he says when the silence becomes too awkward.

“No, sir. Just sea sickness,” Silva smiles.

Villa takes a breath but in that moment, Patricia appears in the company of Shakira and Fernando Llorente. It’s obvious that Shakira drew Llorente in their company only to save Irina from him. She even linked her arm through his to make sure he wouldn’t go chasing the poor woman around the deck, and Villa almost wants to laugh at their height difference but remembers it’s inappropriate just in time. He somehow can’t think of any appropriate remark to start the conversation, though.

“Ladies, sir,” Silva gets him out of his misery. “May I offer you some coffee?”

“Not for me, thank you,” Patricia says. “Coffee doesn’t do me good.”

“I will have a cup, gladly,” Shakira smiles. “No sugar, please.”

“I’d prefer some brandy, but being seen drinking coffee in public will probably do less harm to my reputation,” Llorente sighs. “So one for me.”

Villa laughs diligently with the others, but he keeps watching Silva disappear with the silver tray. He doesn’t know why, but he sometimes gets the impression that the steward can see in the depths of his soul, that he can read him much better than his wife ever could, despite being married for years.

Marc breathes a sigh of relief when Asier and Jesé finally leave them alone and disappear in the third class smoking room, which is almost Asier’s second home already. He usually stays there late into the night, only coming back after having won enough money in poker. Quite a few Irishmen and Swedes are probably already plotting his murder.

“What is it now?” Sergi asks when Marc leans over the rail.

“I don’t know,” Marc sighs. “All these people... they have nothing, no certainties, just hopes... I don’t know if I can live like that.”

“Of course you can,” Sergi smiles. “You already are living like that.”

“But...”

“In life, you have no certainties. Except the one that you will die one day.”

Marc smiles when Sergi holds his hand and looks at the horizon. Sergi’s hands are still calloused, a subtle reminder of both past and future. Marc gave up everything the moment he ran away from his father’s house in Barcelona, and only now he seems to realize the extent of it. Every time he wants to reach for something and realizes that it is far away, no longer his. Even his name is no longer his, or at least has no value. Not here among the immigrants and stewards who maybe come from no better places, but thanks to their uniforms regard them as trash. There are no more cheque books to cover up whatever he’d need, no more nice clothes and visit cards to get him wherever he pleases to go.

His mind flies to the day when they first met. Marc was never interested in his father’s business, not until he finished school. Only then, when his father decided it was the right time for Marc to start getting some experience, he agreed to visiting the factories at Barcelona and choosing one he would help to supervise.

He made his mind right when he walked in the first one and his eyes met cornflower blue, shining curiously from the face of a young boy working in one of the halls. They stared at each other like they turned into statues and couldn’t look away. It resulted in a huge splinter getting stuck in the boy’s palm. Marc used his own Swiss Army knife to extract it and his handkerchief to stop the blood.

As far as he knows, the handkerchief is still Sergi’s most prized possession and he would surely find it if he was to dig through Sergi’s bag.

“Shall we go and have dinner?” Sergi asks.

Marc nods and tears his eyes away from the magnificent sunset.

“Still not missing caviar?” Sergi grins.

Marc smiles and shakes his head. “Not in the slightest.”

Irina heads to the lift, looking around carefully. Everyone is still at the table. She left earlier, complaining about a headache, after which Shakira promptly suggested she retired to her room and didn’t let anyone disturb her.

She gets in the lift and is just about to speak when she looks up and freezes. The lift steward is the other, blonde boy. “To the first class cabins, Miss?” he asks.

“Ah... yes, please,” she blurts out. She wills herself to stay calm and not imagine the things that could have happened had she not looked at him before speaking. “Where is your colleague?” she asks in a light tone of voice.

“You mean Óliver, Miss?” Antoine raises his brows. “We had to switch the shifts. I’m working the night ones now.”

“Had to?” Irina frowns. “Why?”

“You’d have to ask Mr. Lambert, the lounge steward. He’s our superior.”

Irina makes a non-committal sound and remains silent for the rest of the ride.

Steven Gerrard walks on the bridge and scans the maps and notes quickly before looking out at the ocean.

“Good weather, isn’t it?” Officer Milner asks his senior.

“Indeed,” Gerrard nods. “It will get colder over the night, though.”

He can see Officer Henderson exchange a few words with Wilshere before Wilshere retires to his cabin. Gerrard noticed that Henderson was kind of the odd man out among the officers. He’s a sailor with love for the ocean, not for the pleasantries and shiny buttons of the uniform. The attention of the socialites rather annoys him.

“The Captain plans to use the remaining boilers tomorrow,” Gerrard says then.

“Already? I thought he would do that in three days,” Milner frowns.

“Well, he’s under pressure from the boss,” Gerrard shrugs. “Abramovich wants the Blue Riband. He wants the headlines.”

“And he shall have them,” Milner smiles. “I hope I get a photo in the newspapers.”

Shakira looks around her and then pushes the handle of Irina’s cabin, just to make sure it’s locked. To her surprise, the door comes open. She walks in and sees Irina sitting on the sofa, drinking tea. Irina’s maid nods to Shakira and promptly leaves them alone, going back to her cabin in the second class.

“What are you doing here?” Shakira asks. “I thought you were... what happened?”

“The lift stewards,” Irina explains, feigning indifference, like all she had actually wanted to do was to enjoy tea in her cabin. “They switched.”

“Switched?” Shakira frowns.

“Had to switch, at least that’s what that other one said. He’s working the night shifts now.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said I’d need to ask Lambert, that steward. Of course I won’t do that.”

“I might,” Shakira says and goes to the door.

“No, wait!” Irina calls and grabs her hand. “Maybe it’s better like this. Maybe it’s meant to be like this.”

“Nonsense!” Shakira shakes her head and walks back to the lift resolutely.

The first steward she comes across is Leighton Baines, one of the first-class stewards. “May I help you, Miss Mebarak?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m looking for Mr. Lambert,” Shakira says.

“I don’t know where he is now exactly... Can I be possibly of any assistance?”

“No, I need to speak with him personally. Find him, please.”

Baines nods and hurries to the dining room. Shakira sits on a sofa in the hall. Lambert appears a few minutes later. “You wished to speak with me, Miss?” he asks.

“Yes,” Shakira says and gets up from the sofa. “I have a question regarding the lift stewards. I noticed that you ordered them to switch and I was interested in what the reason was.”

“Ah, the lift stewards,” Lambert says, a bit surprised. “Well, Mr. Del B... a certain gentleman... complained about Óliver, said it took him way too long and he was tired of waiting for the lift for an eternity each time after dinner.”

Shakira wrinkles her nose. “All right, so if I now complain about Antoine, you are going to switch them again, or is this mysterious Mr. Del B. the new captain of this ship and has the final say in everything?”

“Do you have any complaints about Antoine, Miss?” Lambert asks, carefully pretending she stopped her question right before mentioning Del Bosque.

Shakira bites her lip. She does want to help Irina, but getting the boy in trouble because of it seems unfair. “No, not really,” she replies. “Thank you, Mr. Lambert.”

Lambert just nods and retires. Shakira mumbles a few curses under her breath, then smiles and walks out on the deck.

Silva is already in the smoking room when Villa arrives with Del Bosque and Llorente. He wonders whether the steward actually sleeps.

Villa orders some brandy, not because he wants it, but because everyone is having it. It’s one of the things he has learned over the years, and one he still hates himself for. Do as everyone does, try to fit in, follow the herd. It’s how it works in this world, and he tries, but he still feels like a black sheep that just won’t hide in the herd, no matter what it does.

“Your brandy, sir,” he hears Silva’s voice and looks up.

Silva’s smile is as anchoring and calming as ever. Villa takes the glass from him and his fingers brush against the younger man’s. Silva doesn’t startle, he doesn’t even blink.

“Tell me something,” Villa says in a voice so low that nobody else can hear him. The other men are tangled in some important politics-related conversation with Manuel Neuer anyway. “Are you my guardian angel?”

There’s a hint of blush on Silva’s face and then he narrows his eyes. “Maybe I would like to be,” he says and leaves the room, leaving Villa dizzy with more than the heavy smoke-filled air.

“Have you always wanted to do this?” Federica asks while drawing pictures on Alessandro’s skin with her fingertips.

“To be a cook?” Alessandro laughs. “It was the second option.”

“What was the first?”

“To be awfully rich, like you,” Alessandro smirks and kisses her. “And not having to work a day in my life.”

Federica laughs and lays her head on his shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to be an actress,” she says. “Of course my father would never let me.”

“An actress... like in those movies?”

“No, not that,” Federica shakes her head. “There people don’t even hear you speak, and everything is strange, sped up, unrealistic. I wanted to be an actress in a theater, to play the big parts like... Desdemona in Othello. Do you know Othello?”

Alessandro shakes his head and grins. “But I’m sure that whatever role you’d play, people would love to look at you. I do love looking at you.”

Federica smiles and lifts her head. “But I will,” she declares almost solemnly. “When we get to America, I will become an actress. My father can stand on his head or whatever he likes, but I will do it.”

“Maybe I’ll come to see you one day. Pay all my money to see you from the best seats.”

“Don’t be silly,” Federica whispers. “I’ll give you the tickets for the best seats.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, maybe you’ll have to work for them a little bit.”

“And how much would a season ticket be?” Alessandro smiles mischievously.

Shakira is a bit out of breath when she comes back to Irina’s room, but she is smiling contentedly.

“So what’s with the lift steward?” Irina asks, her voice tight.

“Forget about the lift steward,” Shakira says. “You are meeting him. Tonight.”

Irina looks at her like Shakira went mad. “I can’t be seen going to the third class!”

“No,” Shakira nods. “But you can be seen going to the second class to talk to your maid, can’t you?”

Chapter Text

April 14, 1912

I will stand like a rock, I will bend till I break
Till there's no more to give, if that's what it takes


If Shakira didn’t go to Irina’s cabin and didn’t practically pull her out, she’d stay there all day, hiding from everyone.

“I can’t go out!” she shakes her head. “Not after what I did yesterday.”

“So you will stay here and starve yourself, and then let the ship return to England with your body?” Shakira asks.

“I can’t face the people and act like nothing happened...”

“Irina!” Shakira interrupts her. “It’s not written on your forehead. The only thing that should be written there is ‘unlike you, I had a few moments of happiness’.”

“If my father finds out...” Irina whispers.

“There is no way he could find out. If someone saw you going to the second class to your maid’s cabin, so what?”

“What if someone saw you and my maid sneaking him into that cabin? What if she says something? And what about the lift steward?”

“Nobody will say anything, I can assure you,” Shakira sighs. “Now come to have breakfast. Because if you don’t come, then people will start talking.”

This finally works. With a sigh, Irina wraps a shawl around her and follows Shakira out to the corridor. Shakira rings the bell for the lift and smiles at her encouragingly.

The lift door opens and Shakira pulls Irina inside.

“Good morning, ladies,” Óliver greets them with a bright smile.

“Oh sweet Jesus in heaven,” Irina whispers and slides down the wooden paneling of the lift.

Shakira rolls her eyes and pulls out her fan to wave Irina while Óliver props her up against the wall.

“Is she all right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Shakira sighs. “Unfortunately you are probably the last person she wished to see today.”

The telegraphist Martin Kelly looks at the transcript of the message he‘s just received and looks at his colleague, Jon Flanagan. “Ice warning. Again.”

“Shouldn’t we report it to Gerrard?” Flanagan asks.

“We’d be doing nothing else if we were to report all that come,” Kelly snorts and puts it aside. “Let’s get done with this lovey-dovey correspondence first. God almighty, how many mistresses does this Del Bosque have?”

“So?” Fábio asks while taking the bowl of marmalade from Vitória who wants to use it for painting pictures on her toast. “How does the first class look?”

“I have no idea,” Cristiano says. “I didn’t see it.”

“Oh, come on, where were you last night, then?” Fábio chuckles.

“Are you my wife now?” Cristiano makes a face.

“No. But I have the right to be concerned. Me and Andreia practically adopted you, you know.”

“I was in the second class,” Cristiano says.

“Woah, did you find another woman in the meanwhile?”

“No,” Cristiano sighs exasperatedly. “We met in her maid’s cabin, all right? In the second class.”

Fábio just whistles and looks at Andreia, who is just shaking her head with a slight smile. She is way more down-to-earth than Fábio. She doesn’t see anything good about an affair with no future. “And so? Are you becoming a billionaire?”

“I’ll be glad if I become a worker in some factory in New York,” Cris makes a face. “Then maybe I’ll be able to afford to send her a Christmas card.”

Irina pokes her fork in the steam prunes on her plate. She is glad that Fernando Llorente finally gave up his attempts to court her. Instead, it’s Shakira being courted by Manuel Neuer who is desperately trying to entertain her with some stories about polo. Judging from Shakira’s bored face, he’s chosen a wrong sport.

“I hope we will see you tonight at the feast,” Del Bosque says and it takes Irina a while to realize he’s talking to her.

“Oh. I...”

“Of course, we will come,” Shakira jumps in.

Federica Nargi exchanges meaningful looks with Alessandro, who is serving her coffee. “Are you going as well, papa?” she asks.

“Of course,” signor Nargi says.

Alessandro hides his smirk behind the tray he’s carrying and heads back to the kitchen. Antonio Conte is standing in the doorway.

“Not that I have you for a capable cook, but since when are you waiting tables instead?” he asks.

“Oh well, since Claudio’s been kept at the table over there by the elderly ladies... since about an hour,” Alessandro smirks and points to Claudio with a desperate expression and the two smitten-looking ladies chatting with him.

“All right, I’ll go to save him,” Conte sighs. “You return to the kitchen.”

“Damn, it’s cold!” Marc yells when they walk out to the deck.

“You should have brought a fur coat,” Asier notes.

Marc doesn‘t answer, his paranoid mind probably jumping into conclusions, but Sergi jumps in. “You shouldn’t have thrown the rats into the ocean, we could have made a coat out of them.”

“Right!” Asier laughs. “It’s almost like Norway, eh, Jesé?”

“Worse, man. In Norway the air was so cold it immediately made you numb. This cold gets under your skin.”

“Even the first class rats will stay inside today it seems,” Asier notes.

“They have rats in the first class?” Marc frowns.

“The first class is full of rats,” Asier assures him. “They just wear diamond necklaces and smoke cigars.”

Jesé starts laughing while Sergi shoots Asier a reproachful look. Asier has trouble not to laugh at Marc’s offended face.

“Dinner?” Sergi suggests.

“You should become a diplomat,” Asier grins when they head inside.

“Sure,” Sergi rolls his eyes. “Next year I’ll run for president in the States.”

“Spring lamb with mint sauce,” Klaas-Jan sighs when he reads the menu. “Life is good.”

“Do you do anything else than eat?” Miro snorts, helping himself to the hors d’oeuvre.

“Well, you don’t do anything else than write, so don’t judge him,” Thomas says.

Miro’s eyes go wide when Thomas pretends to drop tapioca on his manuscript.

“The question is, though, what do I do?” Thomas ponders.

“Get on my nerves,” Miro mumbles. “Constantly.”

Villa looks up when a shadow falls on the perfectly polished table next to his armchair. Silva is smiling at him, the warm light of the lamps reflecting in his eyes.

“Why aren’t you at the a la carte, sir?” he asks. “I thought there was a banquet.”

“There is,” Villa nods. “But I’ve been at a million of banquets, and I’ll probably have to endure another million. It doesn’t matter if I miss one.”

“You prefer to be lonely, then?”

“But I’m not lonely,” Villa smirks. “I am talking to you, am I not?”

“I think it doesn’t count.”

“You mean that you don’t count?” Villa raises his brows. “Whatever you say is more meaningful than the things that are currently being said in the a la carte.”

“Like... you should wear the white uniform when they take your picture for the first-page article, Captain Hodgson?” Silva asks, imitating Del Bosque’s voice so well that Villa almost spits out his brandy.

“Exactly,” he says and sighs deeply. “Exactly.”

“You’re lucky, Lady Beckham has already went to her cabin,” Óliver says when Antoine comes to relieve him.

“Thank God,” Antoine sighs. “Her heel got stuck in the slit between the door and the floor yesterday. It took me and Baines about twenty minutes to free her from that trap because she wouldn’t let us take that shoe off. I think that’s why she went to bed so early, she’s probably still ashamed of the show she put up yesterday.”

“Well, I’ll go grab something to eat and to bed. I’m so tired I could sleep through an earthquake,” Óliver yawns. “Good shift. Don’t let Del Bosque wait for too long.”

Antoine grins. “Good night. Don’t oversleep. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in this lift because you sleep like a log.”

“I’ll set an alarm clock so that it falls on my head when it’s time to wake up,” Óliver promises. “See you in the morning.”

Adam Lallana is on the watch in the crow‘s nest, together with Brad Jones. The air is freezing cold, no stars on the sky.

“The Captain is probably drinking champagne with Abramovich right now,” Adam says. “In the warmth of the Ritz.”

“When you are a captain yourself, you’ll drink champagne too,” Jones chuckles. “Too bad it will never happen.”

Adam pokes him in the ribs and wants to retort something, looking in the darkness. What he sees momentarily takes the words from his mouth. It‘s a blue mass, differing only slightly from the dark blue sky, but Adam knows immediately what it is. He rings the bell three times and then grabs the phone with such force he almost rips it out of the wall.

“Iceberg! Iceberg right ahead!” he yells as soon as Wilshere answers.

Officer Terry is standing on the deck and sees the iceberg at the same time the bell sounds.

“Hard-a-starboard!” he shouts before Wilshere even manages to inform him of the iceberg, practically pushing the Sixth Officer out of his way.

He watches helplessly as the ship struggles to turn. The screeching sound drills into his mind and the vibrations of the rail he is nervously clutching let him know that whatever they did wasn’t enough.

The Captain runs to the deck minutes later, dressing in a hurry. Terry is still leaning over the rail, trying to see whether there is any damage.

“What was it?” the Captain asks.

“Iceberg, sir,” Terry says. “It seems that we hit it.”

It doesn’t seem, I’m bloody sure of that, he thinks.

“Somebody find Moyes,” Hodgson says.

Thomas peeks out from their cabin. Nothing seems to be happening, but he walks out nonetheless. Then he spots a familiar figure heading to the staircase.

“Hey!” he calls and waves at the other man. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“They stopped the engines,” Klaas-Jan says.

“Well, there can be a myriad of reasons for it,” Miro mumbles from the doorway. “I’m going back to writing.”

Thomas just rolls his eyes but follows him. Miro pulls his notebook to him and Thomas discards his night robe and climbs into his bunk.

“You know, if just once I could sleep with the lights off, I would really appreciate it.”

Miro is so submerged in his writing that he doesn’t even hear him. He only manages to write about half a page before someone knocks again. Thomas just groans and turns to the wall.

“One really can’t write in peace here!” Miro says and goes to open the door.

It’s Klaas-Jan again. Miro wants to murder him on spot, but something in the other man’s face stops him.

“Get dressed, you two,” Klaas-Jan says. “I got a feeling this is going to be serious.”

Captain Ferguson on the Carpathia wakes up when there’s a sharp knock on the door of his cabin. He sits up and looks to the door. “Enter!” he calls.

“Sir,” Chief Officer Carragher says when he walks in. “I’m sorry for waking you up, but...”

“Who is that with you, Carragher?” Ferguson asks, narrowing his eyes to see better in the dim light.

“Gary Cahill, sir, the telegraphist.”

“Oh. What is it?”

Carragher looks at Cahill and raises his brows. “Sir, it’s the Titanic,” Cahill says. “I had traffic for them, so I told them, and in response I got the CQD.”

“What?” Ferguson yells. “CQD?”

“Yes. They also used the new distress signal, SOS. They say they hit an iceberg and they’re sinking fast. This is their position.”

He hands Ferguson a piece of paper. Ferguson scratches his head and does quick counting. “Cahill, tell those on the Titanic we’re on our way!” he says then. “Carragher, the ship is in your hands. Get her there as soon as you possibly can. Full speed.”

The officer nods and turns away to head to the bridge. Then he spots a young steward standing there like he’s frozen on the spot, the cup of tea he was supposed to bring someone long forgotten in his hand. “What are you doing here, Manquillo?” Carragher asks.

“What’s... what’s with the Titanic, sir?” the steward asks.

Carragher looks at him and hesitates for a moment before answering. “She’s sinking.”

Chapter Text

April 15, 1912 (part 1)

When the fear rises up, when the wave's ever higher
I will lay down my heart, my body, my soul
I will hold on all night and never let go


Vicente Del Bosque walks out on the deck to see what is going on, accompanied by Fernando Llorente. Llorente is wearing a coat while Del Bosque didn’t bother with retrieving it from his cabin and is standing there in his tuxedo. “They are really exaggerating,” he says. “At worst they will tow us to some port. There’s no need to panic.”

Llorente says nothing, watching the people around. A couple, apparently from the second class, is fighting right in the middle of the deck, in Spanish. “Stay calm, Sara, it’s just a precaution,” the man says, trying to calm down his rather distraught wife.

“Do you have me for an idiot, Iker?” the woman hisses.

Del Bosque raises his brows and gives Llorente an amused smirk. “Fierce woman,” he notes. “Her husband is a lucky man. Or not.”

A steward approaches him and offers him a lifejacket. “Sir, you should put on a lifejacket,” he says.

“Now this is all ridiculous,” Del Bosque snorts and waves the steward away. “I’m going back to my brandy. And I advise you to do the same, son.” With a chuckle he pats Llorente on the back and heads back inside.

Llorente stands there unmoving, trying to assess the situation. Nobody is panicking, women and children are boarding the lifeboats rather reluctantly. Even the second class couple returns inside.

The officer in charge of loading the lifeboat closest to him looks around. The boat is still half-empty and no women are in sight nearby. “Sir?” he calls.

Llorente turns to him.

“You can get in, sir. There are still places left.”

Llorente hesitates. The situation doesn’t seem to be so serious, but then he remembers his mother always telling him “better be safe than sorry”. He nods and climbs in the boat.

Alessandro and Federica are still in the soft bed in Federica’s cabin, blissfully unaware of what is going on.

“I don’t want this ship to dock,” Alessandro whispers. “Ever.”

“Me neither,” Federica smiles.

There is a knock on the door. Federica almost jumps out of the bed and looks at the door, then at Alessandro.

“What now?” Alessandro raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t make a sound!” she whispers, throws on her dressing robe and goes to the door. She returns a moment later, looking confused and mildly worried. “It was a steward,” she says. “He said something was wrong with the ship.”

“What could possibly be wrong with it?” Alessandro frowns.

Federica puts on her dress, then peeks out of the room and closes the door quickly. “There are people everywhere!” she whispers.

“Then how am I going to sneak out of here?” Alessandro asks with and amused smile. “Maybe I’ll have to hide here under the bed and wait until the morning.”

“That’s out of question!” Federica snaps and runs to the adjoint cabin. She returns a few minutes later, looking a bit more distraught than before. “Put this on!” she says and throws a coat at Alessandro.

“Your father’s coat?” Alessandro laughs. “He’ll kill me if he sees me wearing this.”

“Let’s hope he won’t see you, then,” Federica says and throws a cashmere scarf around his neck. “We need to go up to the deck.”

“Why?”

Federica stops putting on her jewelry and looks him in the eyes. “The steward I just met outside said this ship was sinking.”

She puts a fur coat on and grabs Alessandro’s hand. When they walk out of the cabin, the corridor is already full of people rushing to the deck, some of them wearing lifebelts. Federica pulls Alessandro towards the lift because people seem to prefer rushing upstairs on their own.

“Can you take us up?” Federica asks.

The steward only glances to Alessandro but says nothing. He closes the door after making sure nobody else wants to get in. “How bad is it?” Federica asks him when the lift starts moving.

“I have no idea, Miss,” Antoine replies. “But I was told by Mr. Moyes that I’d need to close the lifts soon, due to safety reasons. He said the electricity might stop working.”

Federica and Alessandro exchange worried looks. Then they get out of the lift at the top deck. A man wearing a tuxedo bumps into Alessandro accidentally. “Excuse me, sir,” he says, touches the rim of his hat in apology and runs away.

Alessandro blinks in surprise. Federica’s face lights up. “We’re getting on a boat. Now!” she says and drags Alessandro to a boat where other first-class passengers are boarding. “There are still free places, right, officer?”

Officer Milner turns to her and nods, then looks at Alessandro disapprovingly. “But...”

“Please, Officer, per favore!” Federica says, clutching officer Milner’s sleeve. “It’s... we’re on honeymoon... luna di miele...” She then overwhelms Milner with a stream of Italian babbling. The officer looks around and sighs. There are not many people waiting around. “Get in, then. Help your wife, sir.”

Federica puts on a big show of struggling to get in the boat, making sure Alessandro gets in first and pulls her in. “You really are a great actress,” Alessandro whispers to her.

Miro and Thomas get in the boat after all the women around are seated and the officer gives them the consent to board. Miro is clutching the file with his manuscript and his notebook to his chest the way mothers around him are holding their babies. Thomas looks at Klaas-Jan, who throws a leg over the side of the boat, but then stops.

An elderly lady is standing alone close to the lifeboat, seemingly confused as the boat looks full and no other is being lowered at the moment. “Ma’am,” Klaas-Jan says and holds out his hand. “There is a place for you.”

She looks at him and takes his hand as he helps her into the lifeboat. “God bless you, son,” she whispers and marks a cross on his forehead.

Miro and Thomas just stare up at him as he lifts his hand and bids them farewell before disappearing among the passengers.

Irina appears on the deck still wearing her evening dress and all the jewelry, only a fur shawl around her shoulders. She had been playing bridge with some English women and only went to see what was going on when the commotion on the deck exceeded the level she would expect after a minor damage caused to the ship. She shivers and turns to her maid. “Bring me my fur coat from the cabin,” she says. “The silver fox one.”

“Yes, Miss,” the maid nods and runs back inside.

Irina stays on the same spot, watching people run around, gather around the boats. Then she approaches the tall blond officer loading one of the lifeboats. “Excuse me, Officer Hart,” she says.

“Miss, you have to get in the boat now!” the officer says, surprised to still see a first class woman on board.

“Yes... it’s that... I haven’t seen many third class passengers here,” Irina says.

“They will be boarding the boats after the first and second class passengers,” the officer says curtly.

“But aren’t there too little lifeboats?” Irina asks. “I saw...”

The officer is apparently losing patience. “You don’t need to worry, Miss, everything is under control.”

“See? Listen to Officer Hart and get in the boat, dear!” one of the women that used to sit at their table in the restaurant says.

“I’ve just sent my maid for my fur coat, do you mind if...”

“Well, let’s hope she can still find a boat when she comes back with it!” officer Hart yells, falling out of his role and contradicting himself unwittingly. “Now get in, it’s the last offer!”

Irina purses her lips, offended, but still climbs in the boat, helped by the crewmen. Just when she settles in, David Villa appears with his wife, children and their governess. Officer Hart almost rolls his eyes like he can’t understand what all those people had been waiting for. “Women and children only, sir,” he tells Villa politely but sternly.

“But...” Patricia objects.

“It’s alright, officer, I just accompanied my wife and children to the boat,” Villa says calmly.

“Wait...” Patricia starts but the officer lifts her to the lifeboat rather unceremoniously. “Wait, there is another boat, right?”

Officer Hart has obviously had enough because he gives the order for the boat to be lowered, not bothering to answer.

David and Victoria Beckham walk past the crowds surrounding each lifeboat like they couldn’t care less. Victoria is wearing a long fur coat and a tiara in her hair. “We should have stayed inside,” she complains. “It’s cold out here. They would surely call us up when a boat would be free.”

The officers Wilshere and Henderson are filling a boat with passengers. Wilshere looks around. “Any more ladies?” he shouts. “Ma’am, get in the boat, please.”

“Thank you, officer, I would prefer to wait for one that won’t be so crowded,” Victoria says calmly.

It takes the words from the officer’s mouth.

“Well, you could also wait forever!” a woman’s voice says as Shakira stands up in the boat. “Use your brain for once, Victoria, this ship is sinking and there are too little boats!”

Victoria rolls her eyes and takes the hand one of the crewmen in the boat offers her to help her get in.

“Jack?” Henderson says quietly. “This boat needs an officer. Things are getting rough. Won’t you get in?”

“You get in, Jordan,” Wilshere shakes his head. “I’ll get on another.”

“But you...”

“Get in, we don’t have much time.”

Henderson nods and jumps in the boat.

“Lower away!” Wilshere shouts.

“David, tell them not to lose my luggage when they transfer it to the other ship!” Victoria calls up to the deck. “The dresses are...”

“Will you shut up?” Shakira hisses.

The boat reaches the lower deck and suddenly a group of men appears, pressing up against the rails, trying to get in the boat. “Stay away!” Henderson shouts and pulls out his revolver. “Stay away or I’ll shoot you!”

He then fires three shots in the air to scare the men away. Shakira cowers instinctively when the shots sound, followed by frightened shrieks. When she looks up, her eyes meet another frightened ones, the eyes of the lift steward, hiding at the bottom of the boat, his clothes and hair completely wet like he had to crawl through half of the sinking vessel. Seconds before Henderson can turn around and see him, Shakira takes off her shawl and throws it over Óliver’s head, pressing a finger to her lips.

Villa wanders around the first class dining room for a while, then heads to the smoking room. He finds Del Bosque and Neuer there, sitting in the armchairs like nothing is happening. Just as he wants to walk in, a familiar figure passes him by.

“Silva! What are you doing here?” Villa almost yells.

“The gentlemen wanted more brandy, sir,” Silva replies calmly.

“Why aren’t you outside? I saw members of the crew getting on the boats!”

“Well, but the officers want the stronger men to row. I was ordered to stay here. Would you like anything, sir? Brandy as well?”

“Now that you speak of it, it would come handy.”

He watches Silva make way through the groups of panicking people, handing his life jacket to a scared teenage girl, showing her the way to the deck. Villa shakes his head in disbelief. It all looks surreal, like a play. And finally it’s a play in which he knows how to play his part.

Asier practically drags Jesé behind him, even though he himself isn’t sure that he knows where he is going or if they haven’t already been in this particular part of the ship. All they find is another crowd stuck at a locked gate.

“Fuck!” Jesé yells and slides down the wall. “They’re kidding us!”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Asier says and looks at him. “I’m not going to die. Not here and not tonight.”

Jesé nods and gets up. There is one way they haven’t tried yet, so they might as well do it now.

“Wait, wait!” Asier calls when he notices Sergi and Marc standing at the end of the corridor, away from the panicking families, unmoving. He walks up to them. Sergi gives him a sad, tired smile.

“You won’t even try?” Asier asks.

“We’ve already tried,” Sergi says. “The officer in that boat almost shot us.”

“If we get to the other side of the ship...”

“The boats will be all gone by then,” Marc shakes his head. “If they aren’t already.”

“Well...” Asier mumbles and bites his lip.

“Good luck,” Sergi says and shakes his hand.

Asier nods, then turns around and runs to catch up with Jesé. Sergi watches him until a small girl and an even younger boy grab his hands and refuse to let go. Sergi and Marc look around, but the children’s parents don’t seem to be around. If they are at the gates, they probably didn’t notice their children were missing. Some of the families have five, six children. In the chaos it’s nearly impossible to stay together. The kids speak a language Sergi and Marc don’t understand and most likely the kids don’t understand Spanish nor Catalan, but they cling to Sergi nevertheless. The girl is crying and doesn’t calm down until he lifts her up.

Suddenly the desperate, distant look is gone from Sergi’s eyes as he starts down the now almost empty corridors.

“What do you want to do?” Marc calls and avoids a couple of elderly passengers trying to get to the gates like it’s not obvious that they are locked.

Sergi opens the door of one cabin. It’s one of the cabins designed to accommodate married couples, something that can’t be found anywhere else than on the Titanic. Most of the ships don’t even provide private cabins for steerage passengers.

The passengers of this cabin apparently left it in a hurry as there are still pieces of clothing scattered around the floor and a suitcase lies open on the bed, like its owner was trying to find something in it quickly, probably documents. Sergi tosses it aside and lifts the blanket. Marc’s breath hitches when the children just casually climb under it like it’s some secret sign. “What the hell are you doing?” he whispers to Sergi.

Sergi looks at him and puts his hands on Marc’s shoulders like Marc is a child and Sergi his wise grandfather. There is such calmness radiating from him that Marc indeed feels like a child, and he feels somehow safe. “You know that we are all going to die here,” Sergi says. “You know it. And the least I can do is to make sure these children don’t die out there, scared, among the panicking, screaming people. I don’t care that I don’t know them, I don’t want them to die that way. I don’t want to die that way myself.”

Marc feels the lump in his throat grow bigger because now he can see the fright hidden underneath the forced calmness and resignation in Sergi‘s face and he realizes he‘s only trying to be brave for the sake of others, for Marc‘s sake. “All right,” he whispers.

Sergi gives him a small nod and then climbs on the bed. Marc follows him, forming the other half of a nest they make around the children.

“I should have really booked the first-class ticket,” Marc whispers. “For both of us.”

He reaches over the two kids to hold Sergi’s hand, creating some sort of a fragile shelter above them. The lights, already blinking, go out for a longer period of time, then blink one last time and go off completely.

“Maybe we should pray,” Marc whispers.

“Yes.”

The darkness feels heavy, like the masses of water about to engulf them are already pushing at Marc’s chest. He takes a breath, but his mind is completely blank. “I can’t,” he whispers.

Sergi lets go of his hand and instead pulls him closer. “To God we commend our souls, Jesus receive our souls,” he whispers.

There is nothing else than his monotonous whispering and the solid weight of his arm draped over Marc’s side, until a wave of ice-cold water knocks out the door.

The telegraphists are still in their room, sending the SOS. Captain Hodgson walks in and looks at them with some eerie calmness in his eyes. “You’ve done everything, gentlemen. Now it’s every man for himself. Leave the cabin and try to save yourselves.”

There is complete silence when he leaves. Then Flanagan moves, starting to get dressed. He turns back to look at his colleague and stops in his tracks. “Martin?” he prompts him.

“Good luck, Jon,” Martin says quietly. Then he starts tapping again, trying to ignore the water crawling in like a cluster of snakes.

By the time Cristiano, Fábio and Andreia with the children get to the upper deck, almost all of the lifeboats are gone. There is a group boarding one in the very front, other than that there are only people running back and forth in desperate attempts to find more boats that simply aren’t there.

“You have to get on that one,” Fábio tells Andreia.

“But...” she looks at him desperately.

“We’ll figure something out, besides there have to be other ships nearby, they’re surely on their way,” Fábio says.

Cristiano looks like he wants to back up his story, but somehow can’t think of anything else he could say. Andreia isn’t stupid to buy into anything he could say anyways.

“All right,” Andreia whispers and starts towards the boat hesitatingly.

“Andreia!” Cristiano calls.

Andreia turns around and looks him in the eyes. Then without a word, she grabs Junior’s hand and starts running towards the last boat. It’s full of women and children already, and after Andreia puts Vitória and Cris in, the crewman standing in the lifeboat looks questioningly at the officer charged with loading. “Mr. Gerrard?” he asks.

There is only enough space for the Second Officer, otherwise the boat will be loaded above its capacity. Gerrard hesitates, then grabs Andreia around the waist and practically throws her in the lifeboat.

“She’s the last,” he says. “Lower away.”

In a secret corner of his mind, Villa had hoped Silva would forget about his orders, go up to the deck and get on a lifeboat, somehow, anyhow. The hope is shattered when he reappears with a glass of brandy, struggling through the fallen chairs and partly flooded dining room. “Your brandy, sir,” he says and hands the glass to Villa.

They are alone in the smoking room now. The panic has overwhelmed even the stoic Neuer and jovial Del Bosque and they ran off to look whether there was anything they could do to save themselves. As always, Villa is the last one to stay.

“Stay here with me,” Villa hears himself say to Silva.

“But I have my orders, sir...”

“This ship is going down. We’re going to die. Nobody is giving a damn about any orders anymore.” He makes a step to Silva and looks in the strange eyes that don’t look scared in the slightest, despite the situation. “Nobody is giving a damn about anything,” he whispers.

The clock on the mantelpiece is the only witness to their kiss, falling off and breaking on the floor a moment later.

“They were right,” Jesé whispers. “They’re all gone. Even the collapsible.”

People on the deck are now panicking, running away from the rising water. There is a group of men gathered around a reverend, kneeling on the deck and praying the rosary. “Don’t you even dare to think of joining them!” Asier shouts at Jesé. “God is currently busy saving the millionaires’ asses, he won’t listen to you anyways!”

“And what do you want to do?” Jesé yells back. “All the boats are gone!”

“Well, fuck it, I’ll swim!” Asier says through gritted teeth.

“For how long?” Jesé whispers.

“For as long as I have to!” Asier retorts.

If it wasn’t for his shivering lips and the fear in his eyes, Jesé would almost believe him.

The ship is now tilted down in the water and there is a distant noise, reaching the ears of those in the lifeboats.

Fernando Llorente can’t tear his eyes from the sight. Most of the people in the boat are completely quiet, like they’re too overwhelmed by the situation. Only a French woman next to him is crying quietly.

Then the lights go off and the ship becomes just a shape.

“I believe you will have something more interesting to write about, Miro,” Thomas says.

Asier and Jesé stayed on the deck until it was physically possible to stay on it, but then Asier took his final decision and dived into the water. Jesé followed him, as following his friend was what has kept him alive so far.

When the ship disappears underwater, it feels like the ultimate abandonment. There are only people now, left at the cruel sea’s mercy.

“That’s it,” Jesé whispers. “It’s over.”

“They have to come back,” Asier says through his chattering teeth. “One of the goddamn boats has to come back.”

“Fuck you with your bloody optimism!” Jesé retorts. “We should have done it the way Sergi and Marc did. They at least feel nothing already.”

Asier splashes the freezing water in his face angrily. “Shut up!” He notices some lounge chair floating in the water nearby and climbs on it. It makes no difference with his clothes soaked in the freezing water, he‘s shivering uncontrollably, but it still seems like the best place to wait, for a boat or for death, whichever comes sooner.

Chapter Text

April 15, 1912 - Part 2

Even you face the night afraid and alone
That's why I'll be there


Despite him bidding farewell to Thomas and Miro, Klaas-Jan doesn’t really give up. He never does. It’s just not his style.

His parents left the Netherlands as poor farmers. Growing up, he watched them work hard until one day they didn’t have to work anymore because they could afford to hire people to do it for them. Everything is possible with God’s help, his father used to tell him. His parents left the Netherlands dressed in rags. He is now wearing a tailored suit. Nothing is impossible for Klaas-Jan Huntelaar, with or without God’s help.

The moment he crawls onto the overturned collapsible, he feels almost triumphant.

Officer Gerrard is there as well, helping people out of the freezing water, taking command immediately. If it wasn’t for his uniform being completely soaked, it would almost look like he was fully in control of the situation.

There is also a Spanish woman Klaas-Jan remembers briefly from the second class dining room. She is the only woman that managed to swim to the boat and Gerrard pulls her up, but she keeps screaming hysterically, apparently for her husband, and tries to crawl all over the overturned boat to look for him. From the look on Gerrard’s face, he’s determined to throw her back in the water before she drowns them all.

Klaas-Jan seizes her arm and looks at her. “Pardon me, madam, I’m really sorry,” he says and slaps her in the face.

It works like magic and Gerrard gives him an approving look before turning his attention back to the rest of the provisory crew.

“We can’t just sit here!” Shakira says while trying to ignore Victoria, who has her fingers stuck in her ears and is practically shrieking to drown out the screams of the people in the water.

“She’s right. We should go back,” the officer in her boat says.

“They will be all dead already, Henderson!” the crewman in another boat snorts.

“Well, you do whatever you want, Lampard!” Henderson snaps. “But I’m going back!”

“I’ll go with you,” one of the men in Henderson’s boat, a first class steward, says. “But with the passengers...”

“You’re right, Lambert,” Henderson nods. “We need the boat empty.”

“The other boats are not full,” Shakira says. “We can sit there and you can go back with our boat.” She gets up and with some help from two Germans manages to get to the other boat, ignoring Lampard’s protests.

“We’ll need someone to help us row, too,” Lambert says.

Henderson nods and looks around. Before he can speak, Óliver pulls off Shakira’s shawl and looks at him. “You...” Henderson starts.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Óliver says. “Please, let me earn my place.”

“At least you have some conscience,” Henderson growls. “Grab an oar, before I throw you overboard.”

Irina is shivering, crammed in the boat that is now full to its capacity, after Henderson left with the other one. She is still wearing only her shawl and all she can think of now is the line of her fur coats carefully hanged in the wardrobe in her cabin, now on its way to the bottom of the ocean.

A third class passenger next to her is consoling her crying baby, a stewardess is holding an oar, and the few sailors are looking nervous. Since Henderson’s left with the empty boat, nobody is calling into the darkness.

Suddenly she realizes that she is sitting here because she was told to, because she followed an example again, because she did what every lady around her did, because she was supposed to be in a lifeboat. She didn’t fight her way into it like the lift steward did, didn’t refuse to board it the way she’d seen some women to do on board, women who chose to stay with their husbands or gave up their places to other women with children. And for some mysterious reason, suddenly she hates herself so much that she wishes she were at the bottom of the ocean, among her fur coats and unused porcelain dishes.

There is eerie silence reigning over the place. When Henderson calls out, nobody responds to him. There is nothing but the ice-cold air, the quiet splashing of water against the sides of the lifeboat and the stillness of the bodies.

“Too late,” Henderson mumbles. “We came too late.”

Lambert swears under his breath, gripping the oar tighter in anger. Then he glances worriedly at the young steward. Óliver is just silently staring at the scene, unable to move or to tear his gaze from it. For a moment, Lambert is mad at Henderson for even allowing him to go with them, but then he realizes that not even Henderson was ready for what they see now.

He knows that this sight will haunt them until the end of their lives.

Henderson is almost losing his voice already. Suddenly a sharp whistle sounds in the darkness. Henderson lifts up his hand and the men stop rowing. The whistling sounds again. Henderson turns around briskly and aims his flashlight in that direction. What they see then looks like a scene from another world. A poorly dressed ginger boy is holding onto one of the lounge chairs David Moyes had been frantically throwing into the water, and he is whistling on his fingers like he’s hiring a cab. For some reason, Henderson looks like he wants to cry.

“Hold on, lad!” he shouts.

He’s not even sure if the boy understands him, but he seems to get the message, holding onto the piece of wood for dear life. Lambert and Henderson have to practically tear him from the chair to get him into the lifeboat since he’s unwittingly refusing to part with it.

“Tough guy, aren’t you?” Henderson says, his voice breaking a little bit.

Óliver gratefully tears his gaze from everything surrounding their boat and covers the boy with a blanket. And when he whispers a couple comforting words in Spanish, more to comfort himself than the boy, the boy gives him a small, exhausted smile.

The stars shine the brightest Asier has ever seen them shine. It looks like the sky is shattered glass.

He can’t feel his body, can’t feel anything at all, and at some moments he wonders if he’s not already dead. The boat is moving slowly, the officer at the bow is still looking around with his flashlight but he has stopped calling out. Everyone in the boat is silent, only the young steward next to him is crying quietly.

Then the voices sound from somewhere in the darkness, and it’s so absurd that he refuses to believe that it’s real. Somewhere in the darkness, people are singing. He can’t understand the words but he guesses that it is some religious song.

There is a quiet thud as the side of the boat hits another, and then the officer starts giving orders again. The human presence feels somehow reassuring and suddenly there is nothing Asier craves more than the body heat of someone else, even a complete stranger. He gathers the last remnants of strength to get up from the cold bottom of the boat. From the other boat, several arms reach out to steady him, and he practically falls in the arms of the people there.

The last thing Asier remembers is the sweet smell of perfume as a woman in the boat takes off her fur coat and wraps it around him.

The darkness makes place to greyish light. And then, a ship appears, like a lighthouse they can head to, majestic and solid compared to their unstable boats.

The ladders are ready and the Carpathia sailors are waiting for them, but nobody in the first lifeboat moves. It’s like they can’t believe that it’s over, or like they’re afraid to make the final step to safety. Some of the women haven’t even noticed the other ship, drowning in sorrow over their loved ones. Other women look scared when they see the ladders.

“Shall I go first?” Fernando Llorente asks.

Nobody objects nor says anything, so he gets up and grips the ropes of the ladder. His body is not even obeying him, he feels frozen to the bones. His fingers are completely numb for he’s given his gloves to the French woman in his boat. When he looks up, a young sailor is looking at him, holding out his hand to help him up. In that moment he looks like the most beautiful thing Fernando Llorente has ever seen.

Suddenly he is unable to move, the exhaustion and numbness from the cold taking over. He almost loses the grip on the ladder when the sailor grabs him by the lapels of his coat and pulls him up. “Got you, sir!” he says and smiles.

And in that moment Fernando feels saved, truly saved.

Someone throws a blanket around his shoulders. He accepts it gratefully and sits on some deck chair, furthest away from everyone. He just keeps staring into space blindly, until he hears the familiar voice and looks up.

The sailor, his sailor, is there, looking at him with a kind smile. He wraps another blanket around his shoulders and hands him a cup of hot coffee. “Can I have your name, sir?” he asks.

Fernando looks at him bluntly, then opens his mouth and closes it again. Never has his name meant less than now. “Llorente,” he whispers. “Fernando Javier Llorente Torres.”

From the way the sailor writes it down without even asking for the spelling Fernando guesses he knows Spanish well. “Can I do anything else for you, sir?” he asks then.

“Tell me your name, archangel.”

The sailor blushes a little. “Morata, sir. Álvaro Morata.”

Fernando just nods, unable to do more. He watches a Portuguese woman throw herself at the sailor then, asking him in broken English, then in desperate Portuguese for her husband. Álvaro checks the list and shakes his head, explains in Spanish that the lists are not yet complete. The woman nods and lifting a little girl up, grabs a little boy’s hand and walks away.

Javier Manquillo is not doing much more than scanning the lifeboats with his eyes, running from one ladder to another. He has a faint memory of Jamie Carragher slapping him once in hope of bringing him back to his senses, but apparently the Chief Officer has already given up on him.

“Please, God, please, please...” he keeps whispering to himself.

He’s lost count of the boats already unloaded, the deck is filling up with passengers, but he holds onto his tiny piece of hope.

Suddenly he notices a familiar face and the weight lifts from his heart. “Óliver!” he cries out.

He reaches his friend just in time to catch him when his legs give up under him. “Okay, okay, don’t...” Javier whispers and steadies him, more hugging him than holding him up.

He grabs a blanket from the pile a steward is carrying and wraps it around Óliver. Officer Henderson passes them by. Despite everything, even his face softens somehow when he sees Javier cradling him to his chest.

“I wanted to push the ship to go faster when I heard it was the bloody Titanic that was sinking!” Javier says and pulls back to look at Óliver. “Hey, speak to me!”

“I can’t,” Óliver whispers and looks at him, eyes sore and red-rimmed. “I... what I saw there... I can’t.”

Javier snatches a cup of hot coffee from another steward right before it can be handed to a first-class survivor, and presses it in Óliver’s hands.

“No way I’m letting you aboard any of their ships again,” he mumbles. “Unsinkable, my ass!”

Irina is standing on the deck, wrapped in a blanket one of the sailors had handed her. It’s all scratchy and coarse, but somehow, Irina doesn’t even mind. She is looking around in some kind of daze, sipping at the coffee in a metal mug. Suddenly, she sees a familiar face, a blonde woman holding two children.

Irina lays the mug on a bench, pulls the blanket closer and walks up to the woman. “Excuse me...” she starts.

The woman startles and looks at her bluntly. The boy whose hand she is holding looks up at Irina and his eyes go wide. “You are the princess!” he says and pulls on Andreia’s hand. “This is dad’s princess.”

“I... just wanted to ask you if...” Irina starts and bites on her lower lip.

Andreia looks at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, I don’t...”

“Dad!” Vitória shrieks suddenly.

Andreia startles, tearing her gaze from Irina and looking in the direction her daughter is pointing. “Oh my God!” she whispers.

Irina feels the tears stinging her eyes when she sees Cristiano’s friend make way through the groups of people looking for their relatives. His clothes are still damp and his lips are almost blue, but there is still a look of pure happiness on his face when he puts his arms around his wife and daughter. Irina looks to the ladder. Officer Gerrard climbs on the deck and then the Carpathia sailors pull the ladder up.

Irina doesn’t know why she keeps standing there, looking at the happy reunion when she is a complete stranger to those people, but she has nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. Suddenly, Fábio looks at her and then at Andreia. “What is she doing here?” he asks.

“I just wanted to know...” Irina starts, not finishing the question because she knows the answer already and because she has no right to ask.

The look he gives her is so condemning that she cowers unwittingly. “Thank you for your interest, Miss, it’s very kind,” he says through gritted and still a bit chattering teeth. “Where was this interest when they locked us down there so that you wouldn’t have to share your lifeboat with us?”

Aindrea grips his arm and mumbles something, pulling him away from Irina. Irina stumbles back to the bench, sits down and picks up the mug with her coffee that has gone cold already.

Then she pulls her knees to her chest and starts crying.

Federica walks across the deck confidently and stops a young sailor who is holding a small stack of papers. “Excuse me,” she says. “I’m looking for my father.”

“Your name, Miss?”

“Federica Nargi. We were traveling first class, he must be somewhere on that list.”

The sailor checks the list carefully and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, miss.”

“Maybe he’s on another ship, then?”

“There is no other ship, miss. I’m sorry.”

Federica stands there for a moment like she’s struck by a lightning. Then she turns to Alessandro and hides her face in his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably.

Alessandro pats her back soothingly, but his mind is occupied with the only thought he is capable of in that moment. I’m holding a billionaire in my arms.

Irina keeps to the cabin she shares with Shakira and two other Carpathia passengers. She doesn’t really talk to anyone. It’s only her maid who comes out to see the Statue of Liberty when they near the port.

She startles when someone touches her arm. She looks at the person and recognizes the boy they saved from the water. “I believe you borrowed me this...” he says and hands her the fur coat. “Wouldn’t want you to think I stole it.”

“Oh,” she smiles. “Actually, I stole it. No, I... I was supposed to bring this coat to my mistress from her cabin, but when I came back, her lifeboat was already gone. I found another boat in the last moment, and I put the coat on.”

“Then please give my thanks to your mistress.”

“I will,” she nods and holds out her hand. “I’m Esther.”

“Asier.”

Esther looks at the Statue of Liberty again, a faint smile appearing on her face. “So... will you be staying?” she asks.

“In America? I don’t think so. It wasn’t my dream, it was Jesé’s. It just lost its sense now.”

“Jesé was...”

“My friend.”

Esther nods curtly, not asking any questions. She can probably guess the rest from his face anyway.

Asier keeps staring at the horizon for a while. “You know what I will regret until I die? That the very last thing I told him was to shut up,” he whispers. Esther touches his hand lightly. He shakes his head and looks at her. “I’m sorry. I just needed to get this out.”

“It’s fine,” she smiles. “Whatever helps you.”

It starts raining then, the ropes of water drenching them completely, but they only stand on the deck in silence, holding hands, watching the new life approaching, the life that was supposed to be different.

Chapter Text

Miro is sitting on the deck, his notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand, but the page remains blank. He’s looking around and sees all the possible protagonists of this story, but he suddenly doesn’t know what to write.

He doesn’t know how to describe the third class boy holding hands with the first class lady’s maid, looking at the sunset in silence, their mutual understanding so deep that they don’t even need words. Doesn’t know what to write about the lady wrapped in the coarse blanket staring into space with red-rimmed eyes. About the two young stewards, one in the uniform of Cunard Line, the other still wearing his White Star Line one, taking care of the little children who are most likely alone on the vessel. About the Portuguese family huddled together, about the stoic figure of Officer Henderson, about the tall blonde gentleman chatting with a Carpathia sailor, not even what to write about Klaas-Jan and his smug smile. He doesn’t even know what to write about himself and Thomas.

He closes the notebook resolutely. The stories are not his to tell.

Daniel storms in the inn room, gripping the fresh newspaper tightly, barely catching his breath. “You won’t believe this!” he says and throws the newspaper at Simon. “Your bloody sickness saved our lives!”

Simon catches the paper and reads the first page quickly. “Damn!” he says and looks at Daniel. “Didn’t you say she was unsinkable?”

Daniel just shrugs.

“Yeah, excuse me if I don’t believe you anything you say for the rest of our lives,” Simon mumbles and goes back to reading.

“I need a glass of something strong,” Daniel says. “Or two.”

***

There are reporters, photographers, sensation hunters waiting for the Carpathia in New York, together with the families and friends. Shakira looks around, trying to find Irina, but she doesn’t seem to be anywhere near. Instead, she notices Fernando Llorente, who looks somehow reluctant to leave the vessel that saved them, like it’s the only safe place on Earth. Officer Henderson is eyeing the reporters hatefully and it almost makes her smile.

When she steps on the ground, it feels almost surreal. She isn’t truly home, but to feel something solid underneath her feet is strangely comforting.

“Miss Mebarak?” a voice sounds next to her.

“Yes?” she looks up at the tall man next to her.

“Your father sent me to pick you up,” the man says. “The car is over there. As for your luggage...”

“I think it could be classified as lost,” Shakira raises her brows.

“Of course. I’m sorry, it was stupid of me...”

“No, it wasn’t,” she smiles. “It’s not important. They were just things.”

She follows him to the car waiting a bit further from the crowd. It’s brand new and cosy. The man opens the door and helps her get in.

“Thank you...” she says and looks at him questioningly.

“Gerard, Miss.”

“Thank you, Gerard,” she smiles. “Now take me as far from the sea as possible.”

The hotel room is big and cosy, but Irina doesn’t pay attention to anything. If she still were her old self, she would have noticed the wallpaper peeling off slightly in the corner and the absence of fresh flowers on the table. Now she only sits at the writing table, putting together the answers for all those telegrams she’s received since her arrival. People expressing their relief that she is safe, people she doesn’t even know and doesn’t care about and who most likely don’t care about her either.

Her father had sent a car with a driver to pick her up at the port when Carpathia docked. Before, she wouldn’t have even thought about it. Now it’s so absurd. She is his only daughter, she could have been dead and he sends a driver. What world is this?

She remembers all the relatives waiting for the survivors, remembers the Dutch family waiting for their son, the mother crying and the father patting him on the back. The families of the third class passengers hugging them, the mothers, fathers, sisters... In that moment, Irina wished she were poor, but loved.

A knock on the door tears her out of her gloomy thoughts and she lifts her head. “Enter!”

The door opens and Esther walks in. “Miss Shaykhlislamova?”

“What is it, Esther?” Irina asks, looking at the blank page of the paper.

“I wanted to tell you that I will not be staying with you here in America.”

Irina looks up to her and blinks. “For what reason?”

“I’m going back to Spain.”

Irina raises her brows. “Back to Spain? Don’t be ridiculous. What are you going to do there?”

“Get married.”

Irina just looks at her bluntly.

“I found a piece of happiness in this tragedy and I won’t let it slip through my fingers,” Esther says. “No matter how many steps I have to descend.”

Irina takes a deep breath and then gets up. “Well, then I can only wish you good luck,” she says. “If you think that you are doing the right thing...”

“I am sure about it.”

Irina smiles, then reaches for a stash of cheques and fills one in. “This should be enough for... a decent wedding dress,” she says and hands it to Esther.

Esther looks at the cheque and blinks. “This is enough for a small house, Miss!” she exclaims.

“A house or a dress, whatever you need,” Irina says. “Whatever makes you happy. Be happy. Also for me.”

The lady behind the desk at the Cunard Line office smiles at Álvaro, hands him the accounting book to sign after he receives his salary, and then hands him an envelope.

“What is this?” Álvaro asks.

“This was sent to the Cunard Line with your name,” she says.

Álvaro opens the envelope and then turns back to the woman. “Are you sure that this is mine?”

“Of course, Mr. Morata, it has your name on it,” she smiles.

“What is it?” his colleague asks, trying to peek in the envelope over Álvaro’s shoulder, which, given Álvaro’s height, seems to be an impossible task.

“A cheque for five hundred pounds,” Álvaro whispers. “And a first-class ticket to New York.”

His colleague just whistles. Álvaro puts the money and the ticket back in the envelope and looks at the lady behind the desk. “Do you have a return address somewhere?”

She blinks in confusion. “Yes, I think so...”

“Then send it back,” Álvaro says and hands her the envelope.

“What are you doing?” his friend whispers, clutching his sleeve. “Are you mad?”

“I got paid my extras for doing my duty,” Álvaro says. “I don’t help people for money, I help them because it’s what God and my captain want me to do. What kind of person would I be?”

“I’ll call you a fool until the day you are a ship’s captain and earn a hundred pounds per month. Which means I’ll be calling you a fool until the end of your life.”

The man in the White Star Line office looks tired and annoyed at the same time. With all the telegraphs, requests for refunds and the telephone ringing all the time, it’s no surprise.

When Óliver hands him a paper, he doesn’t even look at it. “And this is?” he asks.

“My request for a transfer to the Cunard Line,” Óliver says.

The employee looks unimpressed. He takes the paper, throws it in a huge pile of others and rubs his eyes behind his glasses.

“You’re not the first, and not the last, I think,” he sighs. “Well, your contract with the White Star Line can be regarded as... resolved. You can go wherever you want to go.”

“Thank you.”

He walks out and grins at Javier, who is waiting outside like stepping inside the White Star Line office is worse than walking through the gates of hell.

“Done?” Javier asks.

Óliver nods and looks at the ships in the harbor. Javier watches him for a while. “At first I thought you wouldn’t even want to come back. To sea.”

Óliver shakes his head and smiles. “I hold no grudge against the sea. It’s not its fault. I think from time to time God reminds us we’re not as great as we think, and I just happened to be one of those he needed to remind of that.”

“And that’s it?” Javier raises his brows.

“Yes,” Óliver nods. “Lesson learned.”