Soooooo... idk if anyone remembers 1912, I wrote it last year to coincide day-to-day with the sinking of the RMS Titanic on the one hundredth anniversary. It seemed to go down pretty well and I thought the universe was an interesting one - a canon take on the event rather than a retelling of James Cameron's Titanic - so I've been thinking about revisiting it for a while with this: 1915, chronicling the (controversial) sinking of the RMS Lusitania in 1915 by a German U-boat, one of the catalysts which led to the USA's involvement in WWI. It's nowhere near as famous or well-documented/explored as the Titanic's sinking so the research as been hard-going in places and also I'm aware that many people just don't find the Lusitania as interesting as the Titanic? BUT I hope some people will be interested in revisting the 1912 universe with me all the same? :3

This will be undertaken in a similar fashion to 1912, hopefully with day-by-day updates on the corresponding date (or maybe a little less, it depends on how much space I need for the story, given that Lusitania was afloat for longer than Titanic...)

So... uhh, that's pretty much it, I suppose. Let's begin.

1915

Friday 30th April, 1915

Given the circumstances, Alfred was pretty sure he could let it slide: Arthur showing up more or less unannounced, that is. It wasn't like him, really - even when 1775 had made enemies of them, he'd still been more-or-less by the book - but he had come to learn, from Arthur's mud-stained letters, that this war was...

...well, different. In all the wrong ways.

Alfred wasn't really properly dressed, no jacket, collar unbuttoned, still knotting his tie as he scrambled down the grand staircase of New York's glorious Waldorf-Astoria; it was early, thankfully, with vey few other guests up and about to glare at him as he took the steps two and three at a time. He'd still been asleep when the message had come that Arthur was waiting for him in the lobby; and had fumbled to dress as quickly as possible so as not to keep him waiting (this he had as ammunition lest Arthur bewail the fact that he hadn't shaved or combed his hair - it was only half past seven in the morning, after all, and he'd given no warning).

He padded into the Park Avenue lobby, tucking his grey silk tie in as he looked about for Arthur, whom he was expecting bag and baggage, for he seemed incapable of travelling light; and in his best suit, too, since he liked to be well-dressed for travelling as opposed to comfortable.

What he found instead, slumped in one of the plush chairs in the corner of the lobby, was Arthur, clearly exhausted, with no worldly belongings with him at all; and dressed in his white Royal Navy uniform, cap on the table in front of him where usually he'd have a drink and an ashtray. He didn't notice Alfred approach him, only looking up when Alfred sank into the seat opposite.

"Good morning," Alfred said cheerfully, beaming at him.

"A-ah." Arthur straightened with the suddeness of a startled cat. "Good morning, Alfred. I apologise, I was just, ah..." He trailed off, stifling a yawn, before shaking his head. "Sorry, I was..."

"You look tired," Alfred said candidly; obvious, understatement, but he felt that it needed to be said or Arthur wouldn't admit to it.

"I am," Arthur agreed gratefully. "I had the night watch. I know it's not likely we'll run into anything in American waters but protocol, you know how it is..."

"Uh huh." Alfred reached across and took Arthur's hand, squeezing it. "It's good to see you. It's... uh, been a while, huh?"

"Last year," Arthur said, gripping him back. "When I went back. No, I... I don't suppose we've seen each other since then."

"Thank god for the letters," Alfred said, smiling weakly.

"Hm." Arthur gave a little roll of his eyes. "Indeed, a fine thing they are - censored to high heaven."

Alfred frowned.

"...Censored?"

"Oh, god, yes - can't have the Germans getting them, using them to deface morale, the usual rubbish." Arthur gave a dismissive, impatient wave of his hand. "Everything I said in those letters, Alfred, bloody forget it - it's much worse than anything I wrote." He shook his head tiredly. "It's much worse than you could ever imagine."

"O-oh." Alfred didn't know what to say to that. "...So, uh, are you on... leave or something?"

"Not for another two weeks," Arthur grumbled. "I'm afraid I'm here on business, actually." He looked meaningfully at Alfred. "With you."

Alfred blinked.

"Me?"

"Mm." Arthur didn't seem all that interested in his purpose at the moment. "But, well, I'll get to that. I'm just off the bloody ship, I haven't eaten, I haven't slept, I could punch a hole in the wall, to tell you the truth..."

"Well then!" Alfred hopped up. "You know what? Now that I'm up, I'm hungry too. Let's have some breakfast!"

Another grateful grin from Arthur. He had a bruise on his cheekbone and around his eye socket, obvious when he smiled.

"I knew I could count on you to say that," he said, heaving himself up.

Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him close; he leaned in quickly, furtively, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He tasted like salt and coal with the faint grit of mud ghosting far beneath.

"I've missed you," he muttered, almost embarrassed. "After all that time together... I feel so lonely without you."

"Naturally." Arthur smirked. "You're a war sweetheart now."

Alfred snorted.

"You know I wouldn't be waiting at home if I had my way," he said softly, whispered into Arthur's ear.

"Is that so." This wasn't a question on Arthur's part. He found Alfred's hand and squeezed affectionately and said nothing more.

"Which ship did you come over on?" Alfred asked, changing the topic; it was a touchy issue.

Arthur didn't answer for a second; when he did, he looked cautiously at Alfred.

"Olympic," he said.

Alfred shuddered.

"I don't want that thing in my habour," he said coolly. "...I read it looks exactly like her inside, staircase and all. Is that true?"

"More or less. There are always a lot of ghoulish tourists booked on for precisely that reason. Still..." Arthur glanced slyly at Alfred. "I do think you're being silly. Have you seen Olympic recently? She's covered in dazzle paint."

"Oh yeah?"

"Indeed - you really should see her. She doesn't look a thing like Titanic at all."

"...Now, I must ask you not to judge hastily," Arthur said, handing a small white envelope across the debris of their shared breakfast; he stirred his tea distractedly as Alfred took it. "This is a diplomatic invitation. I think it wise not to let... certain events cloud your decision."

"Huh." Alfred narrowed his eyes suspiciously, picking up his used butter knife to slit the envelope open. He pushed his plate aside to shake out the contents: a folded letter, a colour postcard and a ticket. "...Arthur-"

"I'm only the messenger," Arthur interrupted primly, taking another piece of toast, cold and dry, just to nibble on. "Though I might have known that you wouldn't be receptive."

The postcard was a watercolour painting of a ship; a long black-bodied creature with four orange funnels. His stomach bubbled in revulsion, in utter horror, just looking at it. He turned it face-down and looked heavy-hearted at the ticket instead. It was stamped with the Cunard logo and had tomorrow's date on it.

"No," Alfred said immediately. He put the ticket down. "Absolutely not. There is no way on this earth."

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous," Arthur said witheringly. "Do you even know which one Lusitania is?"

"I know she's got four funnels." Alfred shook his head. "That cements it for me."

"You only know that because of the postcard."

"I don't do four funnel liners." Alfred shivered. "Not after Titanic."

Arthur sighed.

"Alfred, believe it or not, some good actually came out of Titanic's sinking - all passenger liners are now required by maritime law to carry enough lifeboats for all souls on board."

"Too little too late," Alfred said crossly. "You agreed with me when we read that in the paper after the Titanic Inquiry."

"Ah, yes." Arthur's green eyes gleamed. "Wasn't that held in this very hotel?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything." Alfred crumpled the letter without even opening it. "The answer is no."

"You can't stay in the United States for the rest of your life."

"Well, once we get aviation going full-speed-"

"For god's sake, Alfred, we don't have time for you to fiddle about with toy aeroplanes!" Arthur snapped, slamming his cup onto its saucer. "This is serious. We are at war."

"You are, you mean," Alfred said uneasily. "I'm neutral, officially - so what difference does it make if I accept your invitation or not?"

"Because the Germans are scare-mongering and it's not good for morale!"

"Morale, morale!" Alfred replied heatedly. "Is that all you care about, Arthur?"

"Of course not," Arthur said frustratedly, "but you can't win a war with just weapons, you know that - if there is no will to fight, if we allow ourselves to be terrorised, then we've as good as lost."

Alfred shrugged, looking away. He fidgeted uncomfortably with the ticket.

"I still don't see what that has to do with me," he muttered.

"More and more Americans are opting out of Transatlantic travel, which is perfectly safe, I assure you - what with the naval escorts on board all liners. I myself was part of the escort for Olympic - and so will I be for Lusitania when she sets sail for Liverpool tomorrow. When you consider that, it's safer than it's ever been; but propaganda is making people frightened and we can't have that. We don't want the war doing any more damage than it already is."

"Oh?" Alfred looked at Arthur suspiciously. "And it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you use passenger liners to sneak the weapons we sell you into Britain?"

"Now where would you have heard a thing like that, Mr Jones?" Arthur asked dangerously.

Alfred gave an aggravated sigh, taking a distracted gulp of his cooling coffee.

"So what you're saying," he muttered," is that you want me to act as a cover?"

"Not a cover," Arthur insisted. "A poster boy, of sorts. You're the national personification of the United States. If people see you making the journey, it'll restore confidence. Transatlantic travel is a huge part of our national income - we can't afford to have it jeopardised, it could affect our entire economy and, well... we need that money for weapons."

"How about I just give you weapons instead?" Alfred asked weakly.

"I assure you that you'd be doing a greater service by accepting that all-expenses-paid First Class ticket to Liverpool, England." Arthur lowered his voice. "...Besides, I'm on leave soon, I recall mentioning. I thought, after the voyage, you and I might spend some time together in London - and perhaps the country house-"

"Stop." Alfred put up his hand. "Stop it. I-I'll think about it, okay? No promises, because I really don't want to set foot on that ship, but... I'll think about it, I promise. But stop, please. It feels like you're bullying me."

Arthur shrugged.

"I am," he said carelessly, finishing his last bite of toast. "Well, it's a start, at least. You'll need to make a decision soon, however. The Lusitania sets sail tomorrow."

"Yes, alright, alright." Alfred shot him an ugly look. "Can we talk about something else, please?"

"Certainly." Arthur put out his hand. "Let's talk about how you're going to give me the key to your suite."

"Oh yeah?" Alfred's eyebrows raised. "And why would I do that?"

"I want to make use of your bed."

Alfred grinned, leaning his chin on his linked hands.

"Commandeering the bed, Captain Kirkland? Whatever for, I wonder?"

"Commodore," Arthur corrected witheringly, "and for sleeping."

"Ah." Alfred pursed his lips. "That's disappointing."

Alfred was quiet in rifling through the pile of newspapers on his desk, not wanting to wake Arthur. He had teased him all the way upstairs, perhaps even made a bit of a show that he had missed him, that he was quite ready whenever Arthur was, made a few lurid suggestions here and there; but in the end he had decided that it could wait until later. Arthur was almost dead on his feet by the time they got to Alfred's luxurious suite and more or less crawled into bed, being none too neat with his precious uniform as he struggled out of it. Alfred had hung it over the back of one of the armchairs for him, watching him settle.

It was a curious thing about nations: that they could embody so much history, hold whole languages on their tongue, take so much pain, bear the weight of immortality - and still their bodies could be as fragile as that of humans. They needed sustenance and sleep as did their people (and still, too, could they fall folly to the weaknesses of humans, these Arthur so often amply displayed, having been overweight just three years before and now, devoured by the war, quite the opposite and alarmingly thin, Alfred had felt the jut of his hip-bone when he'd slipped his arm around his waist).

Alfred found the paper he was looking for - The New York Times, dated April 22nd, 1915 - and turned it over, rifling through it. It came to him soon enough, jumping out at him with an urgency from the corner of the page.

Notice!

Travellers intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing in the war zone on the ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk.

Imperial German Embassy

Washington, D.C., April 22, 1915

This ran beneath the words, in bold capitals, 'Cunard' and 'Lusitania'. There was even a helpful, if blotted, picture of the Lusitania between them, all four funnels accounted for. Alfred read over it again, barely holding back an ironic snort at 'her', as though Arthur and Ludwig were ladies involved in a petty scratching match.

(And, in the grand scheme of things, maybe that's all it was.)

This was different to Titanic. There had been no warning, no omen, no reason to fear; it had been a terrible accident and that's all there was to it. But travelling on Lusitania was dangerous, there was a warning here in the newspaper to prove it. Could Arthur blame his trepidation, truly, when here it was in black and white?

He glanced at the ticket again, his mouth dry, before looking back to the warning. He read it again.

Travellers sailing in the war zone on the ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk.

"I'm not even your ally," Alfred muttered, looking towards the bed. "Not officially. Not ever if Wilson can help it."

He sighed and tossed the newspaper down, heaving himself out of his chair; he went to the bed and clambered on, crawling over the covers until he reached Arthur, curled up in the middle, whereupon he promptly flopped on top of him.

"Mmm." Arthur woke, grumbling, and turned his face against his neck. "What?"

"I want to ask you something," Alfred sighed, nuzzling against him. "The ship. You know. Lusitania."

"Hmm?"

"Will... will she be carrying any weapons? To England. From here. Through the war zone."

"No."

"You promise?" Alfred insisted, squirming.

"Of course." Arthur put his arm around him. "...Do you want to come under?"

"Nah, I'm fine here." Alfred sighed, settling, breathing him in. "...You'll owe me."

"I daresay I can make it up to you," Arthur murmured sleepily.

"Yeah, well, you better," Alfred griped. He took off his glasses and tossed them aside. "'Cause I'll remember."

"I know." Arthur kissed the top of his head. "And Alfred... thank you."

The Imperial German Embassy really did put a warning in the newspapers more or less telling people that they might torpedo any transatlantic passenger ship they were on. Numbers dropped off dramatically across the board and many people opted out of the Lusitania's last ever voyage due to the notice.

RMS Olympic surged in popularity after the sinking of the Titanic because they were so similar and Titanic so infamous - in fact, the only photograph of the famous staircase, used by James Cameron as a reference for the film, is not Titanic's staircase at all but is in fact Olympic's. She lost her White Star colours during the war and was dazzle-painted to stop her being torpedoed.

The Titanic Inquiry was indeed held in the Waldorf-Astoria: and half of the name, 'Astoria', comes from 'Astor' (John Jacob Astor IV, who had built the original Astoria Hotel, died in the Titanic disaster).

RMS Lusitania sets sail tomorrow, May 1st!