Chapter Text
Steel pierced the gaze of Michael Afton, looking out the shadowed window of their chauffeur as they approached their final destination. He wasn’t as impressed as his father was—he had made it out to be this grand, revolutionary, never-seen before ship.
“It’ll be the ship of Gods,” William had said, crooked smile curling his mustache up. “It was a massive investment, and unsinkable they say!”
Michael disagreed; it was indeed massive, but it had the same build and structure as any other ship he had seen. Same uninspired paint job. He didn’t quite understand why everyone and their mothers were losing their minds over something mundane as this.
He was jolted out of his thoughts by a cold, gloved hand gripping his arm. Michael’s head snapped over to Charlotte, whose usually dark skin was ashen, her face distraught as she bit her lip.
“There it is,” she marveled, terrified and awed, simultaneously.
Michael understood her fear. It was a death sentence. For them both. A marriage neither of them wanted to be in, sealed the moment that they would set foot onto the deck.
They were glad it was each other, at the very least. If Michael were forced to spend his life with anyone, he would’ve chosen Charlotte—but neither of them had ever carried intimate affections. He had known her since she was born, just a year after he, and they had grown up practically sewn at the hip. Their marriage was one of desperation. His father’s empire, a torch passed from his father, and his, had gone bankrupt just a little over a year ago now. Michael hated to recall why.
The scent of the crisp leaves crushing underneath his boots still lingered in his mind, the autumn sun spilling through the creaking branches and swerving around his brother’s small figure, smiling down at him.
Anyways, they were now stone broke. The Emily’s had been family friends dating back before Michael had even a scrape of consciousness. Charlotte’s father, Henry Emily, had always been a prominent man in both Michael’s life and the Afton business. Henry and his father, William had partnered up with visions of an old-fashioned empire of a business. They dealt with machinery, a skill Henry had always held with his nimble hands, and William had handled the business logistics of it. It was successful, to say the least. Very successful. But William still thirsted for more. More money, more status. More power. Michael didn’t know his father at all, but yet he knew him well; so when in 1909, when his thirst drove him to branch off into his own business, Michael was not surprised. Unfortunately, his ludicrous endeavors built in false faith were in vain and his new venture ended up a sinking ship. Henry, always a merciful man, took pity on them. But all those goddamned contracts that William had insisted on signing so he could have the right to say he owned that business on his own came back around hit him in the back—his own stubbornness and pride had gotten in the way of Henry simply loaning money out to him.
They had figured out a loophole—technically, they could loan it out to someone who was family. And that is how Charlotte Emily and Michael Afton ended up engaged last fall.
Henry unintentionally made the both of them feel guilty about having their qualms about the pairing.
“I’ve always looked at you as family, my boy,” he beamed to Michael, dark eyes crinkling with his smile. “Now I can really call you my son, eh?”
Michael and Charlotte would exchange a weary look, and both smile as best they could for Henry and ignore their heavy hearts.
William was significantly less humble about the engagement.
Grabbing Michael by the ear, he’d yank him up to his level and hiss in his ear, “If you mess this up, I’ll make sure you get the worst of it.”
That didn’t sound like a threat to some, or at the very least, a serious one, but Michael knew better. Likely, he’d be disowned, and while William would be fortunate enough to find some decent-paying job in the middle class, Michael would surely be left for the streets.
Sighing, he hit his head against the cold window. At least, he’d have his art. Sometimes he wondered if it were better to just run away and voluntarily have nothing because anything was better than this. At least then, he wouldn’t have figurative death looming over him with his boot on his neck, forcing him to have the same depthless conversations over and over, and at least, he’d be able to pursue what he truly wanted without someone forcing him into the confines of a cage.
“Look sharp, Mr. Miller,” his father commented to his greasy manservant in the front. Michael loathed David, and he knew Charlotte shared the sentiment. He was vile and low, willing to do anything for money, and Michael knew that was exactly the type of man his father wanted.
“Oh I see all right, Mister Afton,” he snarled, showing off his crooked teeth. Michael shifted uncomfortably and resisted the urge to scoff at the consequence of being scolded. “Right beauty, ain’t she?”
“The largest object that’s ever moved on water and we have first class tickets.” William boasted to no one in particular from next to Charlotte, who smiled at him serenely.
Their car halted, the cluttered crowds of clamoring folk parting for their way like the red sea. Fathers, mothers, children, all pointing and gasping in amazement at the straining body of the ship. Michael made sure to exit first, holding his hand out for Charlotte. She took his offer placidly as she stepped out, lacing her slender fingers between his. He broke out into a grin at how rehearsed their actions had been—since when were they so stiff? Playfully, he wrenched their hands away from each other, leaving Charlotte confused, and then hooked her arm within his.
“Michael!” she cried, laughing as she stumbled closer to him. “I just got mud all over the bottom of my shoes!”
As a punishment, she shoved him with her other hand on the chest, causing him to double into the car.
Through a laugh, Michael responded, “Well, I think it looks better that way. Very avant-garde, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose,” she joked back, still hanging off his arm. Her coily hair, previously slicked back into a springy updo, had flyaway curls spilling from her ears, knocked out from Michael’s attack.
“Michael Afton!” William scolded, eyes flashing dangerously as emerged from the car. He was so out of place, a splotch of ink against colorful parchment. All the common folk, with their vibrant patches and fabrics—even Michael and Charlotte fit in somewhat, the pair in pinstriped lavender suits and deep blue velvet, respectively. William was dressed in entirely black robes, the only splash of contrast being a magenta and gold sequined ascot.
“You will stop behaving like a fool this instant,” he snapped at Michael, towering over him and backing him against the jet black of car door.
“It was my fault, Uncle William,” Charlotte interjected quickly, and his father turned to her. “I stumbled and Michael caught me, and I was so heavy we fell into the car. I apologize sincerely,” she continued and it sounded so genuine that Michael almost forgot what really happened.
William was stone silent for a moment, eyes sharp and hardened. Finally, after a beat of Charlotte’s shaking hands gripping onto the crook of his arm, he broke into a smile.
“Not to worry my dear, just try and be careful next time.”
They both breathed out in relief, less discreet than Michael had hoped.
“He favors you, you know,” Michael whispered to Charlotte, smiling lightly and she swatted his arm.
“He favors anyone that isn’t you,” she laughed quietly.
For a moment, their banter put his mind at ease, made him forget the weight of the burden being bestowed upon the pair. But then, the ugly face of David Miller appeared in front of him. Like he knew already how much of an inconvenience it was to perceive him, he gave a sardonic simper.
“Best to get going,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Ship is off in ten.”
He held his grimy pocket watch up, a ticking metaphor for the slowly emptying hourglass signifying their voiding freedom. They stared at him, blankly.
“Yes, a wonderful idea,” William agreed. “Right then, on everyone. I’ll compensate someone to carry our luggage.”
Charlotte clung to him, her face grave and solemn. That open door on the deck, tauntingly grinning at the two of them, awaiting to lug the pair to America in shackles.
“Let’s,” Charlotte said, voice wavering as she tried to let her cordial demeanor remain.
Arm in arm, they walked a graceful death march behind William and David, slowly walking the road to what they knew was a gilded cage. Waiting to prison them.