Chapter Text
Cullen learned two things from an early age. The first was that life wasn’t fair. Tragedy didn’t stop to think about consequences before it struck. The second was that every day he woke up was a new opportunity to make the best of his life - a sentiment his mother had taught him. He had only been 12 when his two youngest siblings didn’t survive a winter cold, only 15 when an untamable wildfire claimed his childhood home and the lives of his parents; too young to understand yet how the world worked, too old to be coddled in the aftermath of unfortunate circumstances.
There he was, left to fend for himself in a world that was already unkind to him, nothing to his name save for the clothes on his back. And yet he defied the odds; he stole, he hitchhiked, he starved, he learned. Life wasn’t fair, no, but that didn’t mean one could not bargain with it and come out with a better deal. For six years not a day passed where he didn’t make a bargain for a better deal. That was how he found himself in England in the first place, how he spent the last two years hoofing his way around the rest of Europe. And it was how he found himself in a pub in Southampton now, looking for his next bargain to get back home.
Cullen took another drag off his cigarette, eyes slitted and glancing over the tops of his cards. The two men across from him - a pair of milky Swedish men - wore unreadable expressions. An insistent elbow dug into his forearm and he flicked his gaze in its direction.
“Cullen, what’re you doing? That’s everything we have!” Samson whispered harshly.
Cullen gazed at the jackpot in the center of the table, a spillage of coins, a pocket watch, and two pieces of parchment. “When you’ve got nothing, you got nothing to lose,” he whispered back, but Samson didn’t seem convinced. He stubbed out his cigarette. “A’right, moment of truth, boys. Let’s see ‘em.”
Cullen looked over to Samson who dropped his cards on the table with a huff.
“Nothing,” Cullen stated plainly.
“Not shit,” Samson grimaced.
They looked at the two Swedes; one dropped his cards just as defeatedly as Samson had - a busted hand - but the other set his cards down carefully, his brows creased.
“Two pair, huh?” Cullen nodded, then he sighed at his friend dejectedly, cards still in hand. “I’m sorry, Samson-”
Samson rose in a tide of fury. “Sorry? You motherfucker, that was all our money-”
“I’m sorry, Samson,” he emphasized, “Because you’re not going to see Miss Scarlet again for a long time…” the grim expression he wore broke into a wide grin, “‘Cause we’re going to America! Full house, boys!” He shouted, throwing his cards on the table with a whoop.
Their competitors both looked with panicked eyes as Samson grabbed the two tickets that sat on top of the pile. “You bastard! We’re getting on the fucking Titanic!” He yelled with delight.
Cullen stood and started scooping up the money from the middle of the table, but then his shirt collar was yanked and he looked up to see a fist hovering in the air. He turned his cheek, eyes clenched shut and braced for the impact, but all he felt was a light whoosh of air as the man’s fist flew past his face and connected harshly with his friend’s hard enough to knock the man’s chair over. The pub erupted into laughter at the sight, and after Cullen was released, he pulled Samson in for a crushing hug.
“Better hurry, Titanic’s leavin’ in five minutes!” The bartender called to them.
Cullen and Samson share a giddy look before scrambling to collect the rest of their money, throw their packs over their shoulders, and book it out of the pub. They wove through the swarm of pedestrians and carriages; if it wasn’t for the sensation of the pavement banging against his feet and the air heaving in his lungs, he would have thought he was dreaming. Cullen shoved his way through the crowd gathered at the end of the boarding ramp, Samson right on his heels.
“Hey! Hey, wait, we’re passengers!” He was shouting out, waving his ticket in the air.
“Have you been through inspection?” The man at the gate asked them.
“Yeah, of course,” Cullen near frantically nodded, still shoving his ticket into the man’s chest. “Besideswe’re American, we don’t have lice.”
With the ship set to depart, the inspector didn’t push the issue and allowed them onboard. As they passed through the entryway, the weight of the moment came crashing on him. Cullen had just gambled his way onto the most luxurious ship of the decade in a Southampton pub. If that wasn’t the very definition of making the best of a situation, then he had no idea what qualified. The corridor they stood in now was spacious, filled with meandering passengers and their luggage. Cullen noticed they were gathering around a board which displayed a chart of the third class facilities and cabins.
They waited a few minutes to get a look of their own before setting off to find their room. When they stumbled in, they greeted their bunk mates with hearty handshakes, dropped their bags on the bed, and then Cullen was dragging Samson back out into the hall and up the flights of stairs that brought them to the bow side of the bridge deck. They watched from the side rails still crowded with passengers, a smile splitting Cullen’s face and a well of bubbling laughter flowing unbidden from him as the ship picked up speed and the sprawling city faded away.
Elation was blooming inside him in a way he hadn’t felt in months, warmth and joy flowing through his veins out to his entire body. The sun shone on his face, the wind whipped happily at his hair, the horizon loomed gold and promising ahead of them. They watched the docks of Southampton disappear into the distance, and the passengers dwindled as a bell rang, signaling tea time. He and Samson finished a cigarette together on the empty deck. Cullen ran then, a surge of joyous impulse guiding him to the platform at the very end of the deck where the wind lashed slightly sharper, and he climbed the rails there at the front. Mist splashed them as the ship cut through the waves effortlessly.
“Look! Right down there!” Cullen pointed to a pod of dolphins in the water, swimming and leaping right along the ship. “Look at ‘em jump!”
Beside him Samson was hanging off the forestay, watching and making silly bets about which dolphin jumped the highest.
“I can see the Statue of Liberty already,” Samson joked, pointing into the distance. “A bit tiny, a‘course.”
They erupted into more laughter that turned into ebullient whoops and hollering, the two unable to contain their excitement. As he stared into the blinding, endless horizon ahead of them, Cullen couldn’t help but remember how this journey had all started with the devastating loss of his family - all odds seemingly stacked against him - and thought to himself that he was honoring their memory every day that he lived and found happiness. A swell of pride rose up in his chest and his eyes welled with tears. Adrenaline pounded in his chest as he steadied himself against the rails and threw his arms out wide, as if he could embrace the sun itself.
“I’m the king of the world!” He shouted jubilantly, from the depths of his lungs to the high heavens, and to Cullen, nothing could have been more true.
They spent a good portion of the afternoon out on the deck, soaking in the sea air, smoking, and chatting with passing crewmen. When the sun started setting and the bell rang again, they made their way to the third class dining hall for supper. Luxurious as the vessel they traveled on may have been, they were still bottom of the social hierarchy and so supper was only marginally better than what he usually managed for himself on the streets, though this meal at least had the benefit of being piping hot and free. Afterward, he grabbed his sketchbook from his pack and made his way up to the bridge deck, lit another cigarette as he got comfortable on a bench, inspiration flowing through him and guiding his hand. A while later, with a full belly and a fuller heart, Cullen tucked in for the night and slept more soundly than he had in a long time.